


When We Come Alive

by Beth_Mac



Series: The World Is Wide Enough [1]
Category: Celtic Mythology, Original Work, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, Teen Wolf (TV), The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan, Young Wizards - Diane Duane
Genre: Autistic Character, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Non-binary character, School Assignment, Suicide Attempt, Synesthesia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-05-02 23:02:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5267195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beth_Mac/pseuds/Beth_Mac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every few generations, twenty children from around the world undergo a Change in their bodies and minds, and come out of it gods- if they survive, for the Change is often fatal, and if one dies, the rest soon follow. Not a single generation has lasted more than a year. </p><p>It will require not only unheard-of strength, but a world where humanity is connected like never before and superstition nurses its wounds. It will require each of the Changed to love and be loved strongly enough to survive, if the new generation is to succeed when all before them have failed. </p><p>Lauren. Octavian. Malcolm. Alyssa. Clara. Luis. Lorelei. Reid. Elisavet. Natalie. Sairish. David. Andrew. Kastha. Devi. Jem. Xi. Isamu. Benjie. Daphne. </p><p>They are the new generation of Illendi, and they will survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Life and Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 12 May 2016:
> 
> This is the final draft of this chapter. As I finish the last few chapters of this fic, I will be rewriting previous chapters until I'm confident that this fanfic is as readable and enjoyable as I can make it.
> 
> Please leave a review on your way out.

**_Longview, Washington, United States of America • 12 April 2004 • Morning_ **

_A girl in a maternity ward gasping for breath, they’re evacuating the building--get out! there’s radiation—The bombs are falling, people are screaming. The sky is yellow and red, it’s supposed to be blue, why isn’t it blue? Hand reaching across—is that a Ping-Pong table?_

_Lassen sie die Welt fallen—five words—let the world fall—spoken by a boy now a man to assassinate a woman, spoken by a girl now a woman to start a world war. The trees are falling the sky is burning when will the darkness end? You know me Laure, you know I’m not like this. But the sky is burning and through it all the screams and the world is ending and it’s all my fault..._

Tavi woke with a gasp, trying to orient himself, wondering why he felt smooth polyester rather than the rough fabric of his comforter. The black sky above him gave him a clue. He was not in his own bed at all, but a sleeping bag set out at a rest area just far enough from I-5 that he could get some sleep. It wasn’t likely now, not with that nightmare, that vision. Just another variant on the vision of world war he had been seeing since he was seven. 

Except this time, he’d seen a vision of himself speaking the words that started the war. 

He had given the order to kill her. 

He had given the order to kill a woman he loved to prevent a world war, because he hoped against hope that his visions were wrong, even after all this time. 

And everyone took him seriously, because everyone knew he was the bad guy. 

And he gave the order because if he didn’t, she would be killed some other way, a way that she couldn’t survive, that no one else could survive. 

He would give the order that killed a billion people, trying to save a single town. 

He would kill the woman who saved his life, and start a world war. 

He couldn’t let himself do that. 

_**Evening** _

It was a dark and stormy night. Well, not stormy, but it was dark, at least for 7:30 in the evening in early April. Normally it was lighter out, this time of year, but storm clouds had been rolling in from the north all day and blocked the light of the sunset. 

Lauren Kinney sat on the curb of Nichols Boulevard, trying to keep her notebook dry in the sprinkle of rain. She tilted it closer to her body as she scribbled. 

She hoped she had gotten a part, although she didn’t really care if she did. Being in the play would be fun, but she would have more free time without rehearsals, and more time to work on her next two novels. 

The previous two were selling fairly well—well enough that Mom had been able to replace the computer when it broke down in January, after Lauren had tried to download songs for free and accidentally downloaded a virus. For the first time in Lauren’s memory, nothing in the house needed fixing or replacing, thanks to the last two royalty checks. Both of her parents worked, but they were slowly climbing into the upper-middle class. 

Lauren shifted impatiently. _Half an hour until Mom’s shift ends._ Since her third book would come out on Friday, they were going out to dinner to celebrate. 

Something in the light shifted. Lauren looked up. She sat right across the street from Louisiana Bridge, and a streetlamp on the other side of the lake let her see it clearly. 

Someone was perched on the railing. 

Lauren dropped her notebook and ran, not bothering to look both ways. Her focus narrowed to the shadow, noting every shift in posture. She saw when they tensed their muscles to jump, and she couldn’t let that happen. 

She pounded to a halt, grabbed the back of their backpack, and pulled them onto the sidewalk. “What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?”

They landed on their feet and tried to wrench their backpack out of her grasp as they spun to face her. Lauren could make out blonde hair, light eyes, and a smattering of freckles in the dim light. 

“Hey,” Lauren said to the twelve-year-old boy, suddenly gentle. “You okay?” 

He scowled. “Do you _think_ I’m okay? Let go of me.” 

“Not until I know you won’t climb back on that railing.” 

He futilely pulled his shoulder away, shaking his head—Lauren wasn’t that strong, but she could be damn stubborn. “No, no, you don’t understand! You don’t— _you don’t get to make that choice for me!”_ To Lauren’s surprise tears streamed down his face. 

“Why not?” 

She tried a different tack, taking in his obvious grief. 

“Why were you on the railing?” 

He held back the tears just long enough to answer. “Because I’m going to cause World War Three.” 

It was just absurd enough for her to believe.

* * *

Lauren watched in bemusement as Octavian wolfed down half of the leftover spaghetti. She knew he was hungry, but this much food could not be good for him.

“You going to eat us out of house and home?” she finally asked, smiling.

He looked up and glared. “Hey, this is good.”

Lauren laughed. “Nice save, kiddo. Now, let’s talk about why you need so much food in the first place…”

He sighed and hunched in on himself. “Please don’t call me kiddo.” Lauren recognized the pose from a lifetime of feeling overwhelmed. 

“You planned everything around dying and now you’re going to live,” she said softly. 

His eyes peered over his knees. “What?” 

Lauren shrugged. “You had a plan, I screwed it up, and now you have to figure out what to do next.” 

“You’re right—you did screw it up. You screwed everything up.” The boy’s muffled voice growled with anger. “Billions of people are going to die because of you.” 

Lauren could feel an anxiety attack tickling at her brain. She wriggled her toes and focused on breathing, turning the sentence over in her head. 

“How will they die?” she asked quietly. 

Octavian reached out and stabbed a noodle with his fork. He chewed slowly, delaying his answer. 

Tavi took the moment to examine the girl more closely. She wore her dark blonde hair long; untethered, it nearly reached the end of her shoulder blades. Her eyes were hazel, Tavi had seen, but she kept them hidden behind dirty glasses with square black frames. 

Her posture was straight, but her bowed shoulders spoke of the insecurity of youth. He saw steel in her frame, but it was new, barely born—beginning to droop in the heat but as yet untouched by the flame. The raw material of the queen she would become was already there, but she herself was still immature. 

When he swallowed, Tavi left off his inspection and closed his eyes. He flipped into his mindscape. 

In his mind’s eye, a long network of mountains and cataracts stretched out before him. Each tiny rivulet represented a possible future. 

He left the banks of his own life and peered in to the next, backtracking until just before it intersected with his own. 

Compared to Tavi’s own mind, the girl’s—Alberta Lauren Kinney, student-writer-fangirl-daughter-sister—was too chaotic to follow. The surface of her life-water roiled with color and humor, tempered by anxiety. He caught flashes of her favorite color (blue) and her greatest passions (singing _BOOKS_ knowledgebowl). 

_Can I tell her?_

She had a deep protective streak and nothing to spend it on. She trusted him already; it would quickly turn her disbelief to belief. She would agree, albeit reluctantly at first; knowing her role beforehand wouldn’t harm the future. 

Tavi opened his eyes and stared at her. He’d always known they were destined to meet, but he had thought it would be on opposite sides of the battlefield, not on the bridge between life and death or in a quiet suburban kitchen. 

So he told her. 

“Do you believe in gods and monsters?”

* * *

Lauren took it rather calmly. As Octavian— _Tavi_ —spun the unbelievable tale, she found herself believing him. Something about his quiet desperation convinced her more than case studies or rolls of film ever could. 

He’d unfolded himself as he spoke, his fear morphing into conviction and confidence. The information he’d held back for five years spilled out. Telling the story hurt, but he forced himself to keep speaking until he’d told Lauren everything. 

By the end, he was exhausted. Lauren led him upstairs to her bedroom; she cleared off the top bunk and let him have the bottom. "Sleeeeep," she moaned. 

Tavi chuckled. "I take you're tired?" 

"Nah; I just like to sleep. The world's a better place when I'm dreaming." 

"'What power would hell have if those here imprisoned were not able to dream of heaven?'" Tavi quoted softly. 

Lauren rolled over so she was half hanging off her bunk. "Easy. Neil Gaiman, Sandman. 'Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?'" 

"Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Do you play?” 

Lauren followed his gaze to her guitar, sitting in the corner. “Yeah. It’s only four strings, though; my hands aren’t large enough for anything bigger. I've been playing since first grade.” Her mind skipped to another thought. “I’ve got some extra clothes. Everything should fit you; we’re about the same size.” 

“I don’t need charity.” 

“Are you kidding me? You’re going to walk to San Francisco. By the time you get there, you won’t have two dollars to rub together, much less buy spare pants.” 

Steady breathing was her only answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This series has two major arcs. The Illendi arc consists of a lengthy prequel, this fic, and several oneshots spanning the summer and fall of 2010. The second arc begins in December 2010 and will introduce canon characters from Teen Wolf, Warehouse 13, Young Wizards, The Heroes of Olympus, and possibly The Librarians. 
> 
> Most of the settings exist in real life, and the background details are as close to real life as possible. The plotline and the majority of the characters are my own invention; everything else was created by people with far more imagination than I.


	2. Prelude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now for something completely different.
> 
> 12 May 2016: 
> 
> This is the final draft of this chapter. As I finish the last few chapters of this fic, I will be rewriting previous chapters until I'm confident that this fanfic is as readable and enjoyable as I can make it. 
> 
> Please leave a review on your way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I use Wikipedia for most of my information, but I do draw on books, other websites, and random things that come up in conversation after I've spent three hours working on a new chapter and barely care if I get the background right. This is fantasy; I will be taking artistic license. But unless I add a disclaimer, be assured that any throwaway facts have been verified.
> 
> The gneiss mentioned is one of two candidates for 'oldest rocks in the world'. The other is the Nuvvuagittuq Greenstone Belt in the same area. Its age ranges from 3.7 to 4.3 billion years old; most scientists agree on 3.8 billion years, so I referenced the Acasta Gneiss instead. (Besides, it's easier to spell.)
> 
> The oldest terrestrial material is a deposit of zircon in the Jack Hills of Western Australia, at 4.4 billion years. Analysis has revealed that both liquid water and biotic life existed at that point, which will be referenced in this chapter.

The oldest rocks in the world lie on the shores of Hudson Bay. They have been dated at 4 billion years old.

They have survived the clash of continents, the birth of volcanoes, and the advance of glaciers. They have survived earthquakes, floods, and fire. They have survived wind and wave, and the creatures that make their home in and around their solid ground.

They have survived us humans, and will certainly remain long after we are gone.

The youngest rocks in the world were born seconds ago and crystallized in a matter of moments. They can be found around the world: Hawaii, Iceland, Sicily, Indonesia…

The raw materials of our bodies were born in distant stars in a single second, thirteen-point-eight billion years ago. It took billions of years for these sub-atomic particles to form the elements that form us.

The gneiss of Hudson Bay solidified when the world was six hundred million years old. It had water by then, and life, before it was wiped out by the impact that formed our Moon.

Anatomically modern humans have existed for a mere twenty thousand years. Next to the Acasta Gneiss, we are infants. But with our feet and our thumbs and our capacity for language and math, we have built an empire.

We invented gods and heroes to keep the fear of the darkness away. We told stories about the stars in the sky to keep us company at night. We created monsters to keep children in line, and promised them a reward waiting after death.

With all the belief around the world, our gods and monsters came alive. But there is one pantheon that was not created by our ancestors’ minds: the Illendi.

Whatever its cause—God, Fate, the Universe—the powers manifest again and again, generation after generation. Every time, the outcome is the same: death. It seems our bodies are simply not capable of handling the Change.

Someday, a generation will arise that will not only survive but thrive. That day is not today.

Not today—but a day not far in the future, a millisecond to the mind of ancient gneiss, a lifespan to newly crystallized lava.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The paragraph in the middle doesn't match my actual beliefs.


	3. Thaumaturgy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 16 May 2016: 
> 
> This is the final draft of this chapter. As I finish the last few chapters of this fic, I will be rewriting previous chapters until I'm confident that this fanfic is as readable and enjoyable as I can make it. 
> 
> Please leave a review on your way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sikh terms:
> 
> Maa: Mother
> 
> Danaa: Mother's father
> 
> Mama: Mother's brother
> 
> Pita: Father
> 
> ChaChi: Father's younger brother's wife
> 
> The five Kakkars, also known as [the five K's,](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Five_Ks) are five articles of faith worn by Sikhs who have undergone [Amrit Sanchar](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amrit_Sanchar). 
> 
> Kirpan: a small sword or dagger. One of the five Kakkars. 
> 
> Kara: a steel bangle symbolizing God, truth, and strength. Another of the five Kakkars. 
> 
> Gutkha: a book of excerpts from the Guru Granth Sahib, the Sikh holy book, found in most homes.
> 
> As with any chapter set in a non-Western country, this chapter is denoted using both the Gregorian and the local calendar.
> 
> Spot the Young Wizards reference!

_**Pathankot district, Punjab, India • 20 Vaisakh 537 Nanakshahi (3 May 2004 A. D.) • Evening** _

Smoke from the funeral pyre drifted into the sky. Devi clutched her mother’s hand, watching her grandfather’s body burn.

As her uncle recited the prayer for Danaa’s soul, Devi hid her face in Maa’s skirt. Tears soaked the fabric; Maa knelt down and cupped her chin.

“Don't cry, Devi,” Maa reproved softly. “Danaa has been reborn. He has a new life now. We should be glad for him.”

Devi sniffled and wiped away her tears with her shirt, then turned and sadly watched the flames burning amber against the night.

Mama started in on the evening prayer when nothing was left but ashes. The small community trooped down to the river. Maa scattered her father’s ashes into the water, as the elder child; Mama tossed Danaa’s Kirpan and Kara in afterwards, and with that, Danaa was gone.

_**Night** _

When she went to bed that night, Devi hid herself under the covers. The door creaked open. “Go away,” she croaked.

“Hmm… where might my little fox be?” Pita wondered aloud, paying no mind to Devi’s request. He sat down on the bed and started tickling Devi’s ribcage.

“Pita!” Devi squealed, wriggling out into the open. “No tickling!”

Pita kissed her cheek. “Maa told me you were sad,” he whispered, “so I came to see if I could cheer you up.”

Devi pouted.

Pita pulled her onto his lap and started running his fingers through her hair; Devi nuzzled into his shoulder. “Do you know what happens when people die, kit?” he whispered. She shook her head.

“If you are perfectly good—if you do your chores, and obey your parents, and are always kind—then you get go to heaven. Does that sound nice?”

Devi nodded.

“But if you are not quite perfect, then you are reborn into a new life, so you can try again. That’s what happens to most people, my love. Only the best go to heaven.”

“Did Danaa go to heaven?” Her voice was muffled.

Pita pulled her closer. “We cannot know, my love. We’ll only know if we get to heaven and find Danaa there.” He pulled his arms away. “Do you feel better?”

Devi nodded and climbed back into bed. Pita dropped one last kiss on her hair and left.

She stayed awake for a good while after the door had been closed, staring at the ceiling. In the room down the hall, Devi could hear ChaChi moaning through her labor. Soft voices attended her: Devi’s mother and aunts had transformed the space into a birthing-room, and the occasional whisper broke through their meditation. 

Devi hoped, quietly, that if Danaa had to be reborn, he would be reborn as her new cousin; ChaChi had gone into labor almost the moment the Kara touched the water, and Devi felt that could be nothing but a good sign.

As she stared at the ceiling, Devi found herself wishing it was daylight, so she could practice her reading with the family Gutkha. Maa always spoke of reading as if it were a magical thing, the key to the world. With thoughts of words and letters in her mind, and smoke dancing across her tongue, Devi drifted off to sleep.

_**Early morning** _

After a while, night was not night anymore; that was why Devi swung her feet out of bed and padded to the door. The hallway outside her room was pitch-black; no morning light shone through the window. Her ceiling and walls were suffused with a soft yellow glow—just enough light to read by. Devi noted idly that she was dreaming, and also noted that she had never noticed that before.

She turned around and blinked. For a second, it seemed as if the world had shuddered, and Devi had caught a glimpse into a world underlying her own. 

“The world is a drama, staged in a dream,” she whispered. 

She was still dreaming: she was certain of that as she reached out to touch the glimmering vision that had replaced her bedroom. The second she made contact, she yanked her hand back, unprepared for the burning heat. 

Devi held her throbbing hand and took a deep breath. The vision hadn’t meant to harm her, she understood: it was warning her. The Universe was both flexible and fragile, and this small piece of it was telling her to be careful. 

_I will_ , she silently promised, and plunged her hand back into the inferno. 

The vision sprawled out before her, showing her an expanse of stars and galaxies. It showed her not only what was, but what could be, and spoke to her of places where the universe had bent and folded to accommodate light and gravity, and where the very laws of nature had been rewritten by mortal beings, if only for a short time. 

Devi ached with the beauty of it. As she listened to the Universe, the Universe listened to her, taking and viewing her memories like a series of photographs. 

_You will do quite nicely_ , It decided, _but only you may choose your path._

The vision dissolved, but Devi’s bedroom remained as bright as ever. A warm spark curled in her chest. 

She closed her eyes and an image of the Gutkha came to mind: its well-worn cover, its faded ink. A smile curved her lips, but the memory of the vision was already fading, leaving only a newfound certainty in her faith. 

Devi opened her eyes. The Gutkha sat on the end of her bed.

Hesitantly, Devi picked it up in wonder. She fanned through the pages and saw that they emanated the same glow as her room. She puzzled her way through the squiggles of ink, gasping in delight whenever she spotted an already-familiar character. She spent a happy half-hour in this way, until her eyelids started drooping— _how does one get tired in a dream?_ —and the light began to dim.

She reverently placed the book in the top corner of her bed, clambered up beside it, and flung her arm across its well-worn cover so it would not be damaged in the night. She didn’t notice how the light faded more as she got closer to sleep; if someone had been watching, they would have seen the light vanish the moment Devi fell asleep, as if it had never been.

The book was still there when she woke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you wondering, Devi is three years and seven months old. She is just learning to read.


	4. Interlude I: what we may be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We know what we are, but we know not what we may be."-William Shakespeare
> 
> 11 September 2016: 
> 
> This is the final draft of this chapter. As I finish the last few chapters of this fic, I will be rewriting previous chapters until I'm confident that this fanfic is as readable and enjoyable as I can make it.
> 
> Please leave a review on your way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As there is quite a bit of backstory between Lauren and Tavi, all even-numbered chapters will focus on them, and all odd-numbered chapters will establish the rest of the Illendi.
> 
> Warnings: Implied/referenced rape/non-con, brief depiction of a panic attack. 
> 
> Public Service Announcement: If you take a pregnancy test and get a positive result when you know you most likely aren't pregnant, contact your doctor as soon as possible. hCG is often secreted by [tumors, teratomas,](http://www.mayomedicallaboratories.com/test-catalog/Clinical+and+Interpretive/61718) and something called [gestational trophoblastic disease](https://www.nlm.nih.gov/medlineplus/ency/article/007333.htm).

_**Longview, Washington ● 1 June 2004 ● Evening** _

Lauren’s faith was at best shaky, but she reached for it now as she vaulted the fence and found it as solid as a rock. _It is the Rock of Ages I ask you to lean on: do not doubt but it will bear the weight of your human weakness,_ she thought as she landed in the tall June grass and kept running. _St. John Rivers, Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë._

She could hear the men shouting behind her, but she had the advantage: she’d grown up here, and she knew this area like the back of her hand. She’d cut through this field every day for three years as she walked home from school. 

The sound of pursuit faded: presumably her pursuers had been stopped by the fence Lauren had just effortlessly clambered over. The tall bushes and grass hid her from view, but they also slowed her down considerably, and rivulets of blood from where thistles had scratched her joined the blood already drying on her legs. 

Despite the grass hampering her speed, Lauren found the exit quickly enough: a sod bridge across a much larger and still-wet slough with a driveway on the other side. The owners had erected a short chain-link fence across it in the years since she’d last been here. Lauren found that to be no problem in her terror, hardly registering the steel tearing at her already-torn shorts.

Here she had a choice: she could follow the driveway to Pennsylvania Street, or turn right and climb a very steep trail up the moraine that ran until Forty-second. Lauren knew from experience that there was a clearing at the top where she could rest and keep an eye out for that bastard and his getaway driver, and it was an easy, if exhausting, climb once she got past the first few brambled feet.

She honestly didn’t think she was up to it.

Lauren clutched her jacket to her chest, taking a moment to heave silent sobs. Her stomach roiled; blood glued her shorts to her legs. She couldn’t believe what had happened, but the evidence was all around her, not least in that she was here and not playing with the kittens that lived in the house on the corner.

She fell to her knees, skinning them on the gravel, and cradled her head for a moment. Then she forced herself to stand up and think rationally. She needed to get home and get herself cleaned up, then get tested for STDs—that could wait until the morning—then figure out legal action.

_Frick, I didn’t get the license plate._

She turned left and fled toward home, running straight across the road into the horse pasture. She didn’t vault the fence this time, but ran down the driveway up to the house instead.

But there was no shelter to be found; no one had lived there since the Springs moved away in sixth grade.

Lauren had a flash of memory from second grade, back when she was friends with Quinton. He’d taken her out back and shown her how to feed chickens, casually mentioning that one could get from Forty-eighth to Forty-second without stepping on pavement once, except while crossing Regency and her own street, if they ran through the pastures. Lauren had never thought about that until he mentioned it, but she used it to her advantage now, burrowing under each fence she came to as if she’d been doing it all her life.

She was thankful for the gathering dark; no one would notice her if they happened to glance out back.

Lauren pounded to a halt after a five minute run, stopped by the slough that wrapped itself around her street. She jumped across, prayed the Hoovers weren’t home, and dashed through their yard. From there it was a straight shot across the street to her own house.

Lauren keyed in the code for the garage door, called a hasty “I’m home!” to her mother, and beat a retreat upstairs where her mother wouldn’t bother her.

She grabbed some clean clothes from her room and a plastic bag, stripped her dirty, blood-soaked clothes, and spent half an hour trying to rid herself of the scent of her own moment of destruction. After the water ran cold, she sat under the spray for a while longer, letting it cover her tears. 

_Now what?_ she thought as her heart started to pound. She gulped for breath, feeling like she was drowning. The part of her mind that always remained cold and analytical diagnosed it as a panic attack, though it was a far cry from her normal anxiety. 

It passed as quickly as it started. Her heartbeat slowed to a less frenetic pace. The adrenaline drained from her blood, leaving her with a sore throat and tears in her eyes. Lauren numbly turned off the water and hauled herself to her feet. Stepping out of the shower, she groped the wall for her towel and slid to the floor once she’d found it, trying to control her tears. 

_In, out. In, out._ The phone rang in the other room. Lauren ignored it. 

_In, out. In, out._ “Hey, munchkin, it’s for you,” her sister called through the door. Lauren hastily shoved her torn clothes under yesterday’s shirt, pulling out the book hidden there as a cover. “You decent?” 

“No,” she called back. 

Sis opened the door and tossed the phone in her direction; their three cats slipped through and started rubbing against her. Lauren waited until it hit the ground and skittered over to her before she picked it up, and she lifted the phone to her ear with shaking hands. 

_**Sonoma, California, United States ● Meanwhile** _

Tavi stopped dead when a wave of fear washed over him. He skidded into the post office seconds later. The clerk took one look at his frantic face and pointed to the pay phone. 

He dialed Lauren’s home number from memory, glad she’d made him repeat it a dozen times before he left. One ring, two rings— 

“Hello?” a female voice said. 

“Hi, this is Tavi Dalton. Can I talk to Lauren?” He noted with pride that his voice sounded almost normal. 

“Hang on a sec. Hey, munchkin, it’s for you. You decent?” she called to someone elsewhere in the house. Tavi didn’t hear her response, but there was silence on the other end, long enough for Tavi to wonder if Lauren’s sister had ended the call. “Lauren? You there?” he asked. 

“Hey.” The single croak was enough to turn his legs to jelly with relief. 

_Physical safety does not equal mental safety,_ he reminded himself. “Lauren, I just got a really bad feeling. Are you okay?” 

“Aside from the cat trying to turn my leg into a scratching post, yeah,” Lauren quipped. The slight quaver belied her flippant tone. 

“Laure?” he asked cautiously. 

“I just had a panic attack,” she said flatly. “I’m hiding in the bathroom with the cats.” 

Tavi’s reply was delayed by the sound of retching accompanied by several meows of protest. Seconds later, her voice returned. “Sorry about that. I had to throw up.” 

“I am holding your hair back in spirit,” Tavi promised. 

Lauren laughed, a short, brittle thing that in no way resembled the guffaw his joke would have elicited a month before. They fell into an easy banter, but Tavi didn’t miss the way her voice bordered on tears. 

“Why were you scared?” he asked during a lull in the conversation, thinking back to his earlier fear. 

Lauren hesitated, then quoted, “‘There are very few monsters who warrant the fear we have of them.'" 

Tavi paused. “And you ran into one that did.” It wasn’t a question. 

She exhaled, loudly. “Yeah. I did.” 

“What are you going to do?” 

“I don’t know yet.” 

“Whatever you do… don’t give up. Remember? ‘Suicide isn’t just a cop-out; it’s a rip-off.’” 

Lauren laughed again, sounding more like herself. “Jake Stonebender, _Time Travelers Strictly Cash,_ by Spider Robinson. Is it copping out if I leave town?” 

Tavi shook his head in bemusement. “You got any idea where you’re headed?” 

“Not a single one!” she answered cheerfully. 

A ghost of a memory flickered through Tavi’s brain—something a kid had told him in Chehalis. “This kid told me to try Houston. Big enough to disappear in, small enough for people to get help when they ask for it—it’s a good place for runaways, kind of a street-kid Mecca. Of course, there’s the heat, but no town is perfect.” 

“Not even Longview?” teased Lauren. 

He wrinkled his nose in remembered disgust. “The smell from the paper mills kind of put a damper on things.” 

Lauren laughed a third time, a full-bellied guffaw that put to rest any fears he had about her emotional state. She’d already buried her pain, buried it deep enough that it wouldn’t swamp her in the next few days as she restructured her life. 

She hung up, still smiling. 

_**Longview ● 16 June ● Afternoon** _

Lauren went through the motions at school, pretending nothing had happened. She finished and turned in her last minute assignments, spoke up in class, and behaved like a model student—all while setting up her move to Houston. 

This morning had been the last day of freshman year. The teachers had handed out popsicles after school ended, and she’d conned several of them into thinking she hadn’t gotten one yet and giving her another. Her ex-boyfriend, who she was finally on good terms with, had pulled the same stunt, and they shared their loot as they waited for his bus to come. 

Now Lauren walked into the women's clinic that had become her refuge for the last two weeks, finishing off her last popsicle. The receptionist managed to smile and look skeptical at the same time, taking in the grocery bag that hung from her wrist. "You're not going to do it at home?" Sharon asked gently. 

Lauren shrank defensively. "I wanted to do it here," she muttered. "With friends." The word sent a warm ripple through her gut; when had she last used it? Fifth grade? 

"The bathroom's open," someone called softly. 

Lauren shook herself and went to do her business, leaving her belongings on a chair. When she returned, everyone looked up expectantly. "Calm down, guys. It'll take another minute." She settled herself on a chair and carefully set the pregnancy test, wrapped in a tissue, on the table in front of her. 

There were quite a few more people in the room than there had been when she walked in. It seemed word had spread: most of the doctors and employees leaned against the walls, casting her concerned looks. Several of the women she'd grown close to sat around the waiting room. 

She felt oddly comforted by the crowd. These were the people who had held her as she cried that first morning and every day since then. There was no one else she would rather share this moment with, although if she knew how to call Tavi—. 

Her watch beeped. 

Lauren scooped up the pregnancy test and stared at the screen, jiggling her leg. She held her breath as the screen changed. 

Two pink lines appeared. 

She nearly dropped the test in shock, but held onto it. 

When everyone looked up expectantly, she took a deep breath. “It’s positive.” 

_**Child and Adolescent Clinic, Berkeley, California, United States of America • Meanwhile** _

Tavi wasn’t quite comfortable in the waiting room. He had been to too many clinics and hospitals, undergone too many tests, to ever be quite comfortable with doctors. Unlike his body, though, the results were unambiguous: he was capable of both fathering and carrying children.

Apparently, Dr. Mathias Hawthorne was the world’s leading expert in sexual ambiguity. Tavi didn’t care. All he cared about was getting this over with so he could go to Camp Jupiter.

“Octavian Dalton?”

He startled as he heard his name, but followed the nurse. She measured his height and weight, then left him alone in the exam room. Apparently changing his primary-care physician required a regular doctor’s appointment, not just a few forms.

Dr. Hawthorne bustled in, wearing a lab coat and a stethoscope. “Mr. Dalton, good to see you. How are you feeling?”

“Um… fine.” 

“Don’t worry, no poking and prodding today,” the doctor reassured him, dumping his stethoscope on the counter. He pulled open his laptop and set it down. “Now, how old are you?” 

“Twelve.” 

“Birthday?” 

“July 27, 1991.” 

“Give me a second… Here we go. Your old pediatrician has already sent me your records.” He tapped a few keys. “So what brings you to the Bay Area?” 

“Boarding school.” 

Dr. Hawthorne nodded distractedly, chewing on a pencil he produced from behind his ear. Tavi chuckled; the doctor looked up. “What?” 

Tavi gestured helplessly. “Sorry—it’s just that my best friend does that all the time. I thought I was watching her for a second.” 

“What’s your friend’s name?” 

“Lauren. Her name is Lauren.” 

_**Longview**_

"Are you sure you want to move to Houston?" 

Lauren hugged her knees and rocked ever so slightly. "Well, I can't stay in Longview."

"You have a great support network right here.”

Lauren laughed harshly. “Who? I don’t have any friends outside of Knowledge Bowl. Most of my extended family live in Tacoma or Seattle or Redmond. Grandpa Charlie and Grandma Lynn live in Arizona half the year. Dad works twelve-hour days, so it’s not like I see him during the week. Mom probably won’t let me leave my street ever again. Sis and her friends are the only people who’d actually try to understand.”

“We can help,” one woman said softly.

“I don’t want to stay in Longview,” she repeated, knowing they’d give in eventually. “I'm already enrolled in school there. I have fifteen years of my life packed up and ready to go. I even cleaned my room and took down most of my artwork." The rocking picked up speed until she nearly fell off the chair. “I’ve got money, I can get pretty much anywhere. I’m already planning on moving to Houston. I’m enrolled in school and everything. I've got the plane tickets and a couple people who can let me stay with them until I find something permanent, but they can't take me for more than a few months. I'll be fine, as long as I'm not constantly surrounded by triggers." 

Someone put a hand on her back; Lauren shrugged it off. 

The receptionist slammed down the phone. “If you want to go to Houston, Clark and Alana have room.” At Lauren’s quizzical look, she explained, “My cousins, Clark and Alana Powell. A lot of runaways end up in Houston. They’ve made it their business to keep kids off the street.”

She shut her eyes and sighed. “I guess I’m moving to Houston.”

_**Camp Jupiter, Oakland, California, United States • A few hours later** _

“Letters of recommendation,” the praetor said, sounding bored. Tavi silently handed them over and stood with his hands clasped behind his back.

She raised her eyebrows as she read them over. “You’ve amassed an interesting assortment of references. And you confirm that you are precognitive and a legacy of Apollo?”

Tavi nodded.

The praetor—what was her name? Mia?—turned to the assembled legion. “Octavian Dalton, legacy of Apollo. Is there any cohort who would accept him?”

The shouts almost deafened him.

Mia looked over each if the cohorts, the pointed to the one on the far right. “You’ll join the First Cohort. Carver will show you the ropes. Dismissed!”

Tavi sighed, but carefully made sure no one noticed. This was the beginning of everything he had dreaded since he was seven. This was the beginning of his long, slow slide into darkness, all so he and Lauren could have a fighting chance to prevent the inevitable. This was the beginning of everything he hated and feared, everything that haunted his nightmares. 

It was, after all, his fate... and the Future could not be denied.

_**Houston, Texas, United States • 19 June** _

The heat was the first thing she noticed.

The second was when the flight attendant who had latched onto her stumbled, and Lauren had to scramble to keep her footing.

The third was the dark-haired man holding a sign that read ‘Kinney’ as they entered the waiting area, after the usual rigmarole followed by debarking passengers. Lauren spotted her bags before the flight attendant had a chance to hand her off and dragged her over to the baggage carousel. Her clothes and books successfully retrieved, she allowed the woman to drag her in turn towards the short man.

“Alberta L. Kinney?” he greeted.

“I go by Lauren,” she replied. “Clark Powell?”

“That would be me.” He smiled and extended his arm. “Shall we?”

Lauren looked over her shoulder and said ‘thank you’ to the flight attendant. Powell shrugged as she refused his arm and told her to follow him.

“So I can’t help but notice that you wear a cross,” he said in the car. “Are you religious?”

“I consider myself Christian, but I don’t go to church,” she replied, giving the rote answer.

“I’m one of the pastors at a church a few blocks away. If you want to come to the sermon on Sunday, feel free.”

“Okay.”

She refused to speak for the rest of the ride.

_**Later** _

“Alana is still at work,” Powell said over his shoulder as he unlocked the door. “We have two other people staying here, a boy about your age and an eight-year-old. Your room is upstairs, second door on the right.” 

Lauren pushed open the door to her room, only to find a boy already in there. She stopped short. 

The boy scrambled to his feet. “Sorry, sorry! I meant to be gone by the time you and Clark got here. I just wanted to make sure your room was clean. I’m Clay. You’re Lauren, right?” 

She took his offered hand hesitantly. “Yeah.” 

“Pleasure to meet you.” He waved around. “Anyway, this is your room; I’m just down the hall if you need me. Preston’s not home. He should be home in an hour. He’s at soccer practice. You can meet him when it’s over. I gotta go. Bye!” 

He slipped out the door. 

Lauren sat down on her new bed and pulled out her laptop. The room was sparse, with bare walls and an empty bookcase on one of them. There was a closet, a dresser and an alarm clock. Its cleanliness made her feel lonely; she resolved to buy posters as soon as possible. 

Her laptop beeped at her, reminding her to log in. She had two accounts, one requiring two passwords and a fingerprint, the other needing only a password. “Baby spy’s first trick,” a classmate had called it when he found out. She entered her password for the public account and brought up Internet Explorer. 

_Houston Arts and Science Academy,_ she typed. 

It was a story she and Tavi had come up with together: a school for special-needs kids with high IQ scores. She had applied and they accepted her without fanfare, but with an added note about her special circumstances being the deciding factor, a note that had made her wince as she read the e-mail. 

The school honestly sounded too good to be true, but it had checked out—that was half the reason Lauren had agreed to this setup. The other half was the fact that, so far as her family knew, the school was the only reason she was moving to Houston. Besides, Mom had signed the forms without question after she looked it up.

The webpage popped up, reminding her that she had to start signing up for classes. Lauren cracked her knuckles and got started.

* * *

A shout that dinner was ready dragged her out of her work, an hour later. Lauren tromped downstairs to the smell of just-cooked spaghetti and the sound of a beeping microwave. 

"I thought it was too hot to cook today," she said, registering the heat of the room. 

"Honey, this is nothing. Wait until August," the woman said, setting a stack of plates down on the table. 

"Oh, I can help." Lauren made a grab for the top two. 

Alana slid them away from her expertly. "It's your first day. No chores. Now sit and wait until it's time to eat." 

Lauren sat. 

A young boy skidded through the door, making her startle. 

"Preston, no soccer gear at the table," Alana told him without looking. 

The boy huffed and walked back into the hallway. 

He came back seconds later, now sans shin guards. "Shoes," Alana reminded him. Lauren decided she liked her. Preston left again, then reentered, followed by Clay and Powell. The two of them started setting out food; Lauren got up to help, but sat back down after Alana gave her a look. 

For a second, there was nothing but the sound of food being plopped onto plates. Lauren was about to fork some chicken into her mouth when Preston elbowed her. She set her fork down quietly, enough not to interrupt Powell as he recited a prayer. 

Lauren bowed her head respectfully, but didn't close her eyes. _Lord, give me the strength to keep myself alive for the next nine months. Give me what I need to keep my child alive, and if I don't survive, give them the strength to find their way without me. Amen._

The others were already eating when she finished. A lively conversation sprang up, centered around something that happened at soccer practice; Preston waved his hands around enthusiastically, recounting one difficult save after another. Lauren smiled to herself. Half the stories sounded made up, but who was she to judge? At least it sounded like practice was fun. 

"So, Lauren, what do you like to do?" 

Lauren started and almost choked on her spaghetti. "Um... read," she muttered, swallowing. "Watch TV. Listen to music, walk around the neighborhood. Just..." She squirmed. "Nothing interesting." 

"How much writing do you do, usually?" Clay interrupted. He spread his hands apologetically at her startled expression. "Sorry, I'm a really big fan." 

Lauren shrugged and sighed internally: he'd probably want an autograph later. "A few hours a day, when I have the chance. More if it gets interesting." She chewed and swallowed a new mouthful quickly. "Like this one scene in the new book—Right. No spoilers. Um. One time I wrote ten pages in a row. And there was this one time when I forgot to save, so I had to write four pages from memory..." 

Her food sat abandoned on the table as she warmed to her topic—and to the people around her. "So, you remember Sammy's first scene? I had _so much trouble_ trying to get a four-year-old's voice right..."

* * *

After dinner, Powell directed her to the nearest branch of the city library, only a few blocks away. She walked slowly, taking in the neighborhood, which sweltered in the remnants of the day’s heat. 

She was too lost in thought to pay attention to where she was going. She was rounding a corner when she ran smack-dab into a small boy who on closer look resembled a Latino Santa’s elf.

She flushed. “Shoot, I’m so sorry! Are you okay?” She held out her hand to help him up. “I’m Lauren, by the way. What’s your—”

He scrambled to his feet and ran.

Lauren stared after him—“Hookay then”—and gave chase. She caught up to him two streets later and promptly knocked him over for the second time.

He tried to pull away from her. “Calm down, will you? I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You—are—hurting—me,” he gasped. Lauren scrambled off of him and pulled him up.

“Like I said, I’m Lauren, Lauren Kinney. What’s your name?”

He bit his lip and said softly, “Leo. Leo Valdez.”

“Leo,” she said, rolling the name around her tongue, enjoying the impression it left. “Leo. I like it.”

Only then did she notice his shattered eyes. Only then did she want to help him.

She thought about Tavi on the bridge, hanging to life by matter of seconds.

She’d seen the same expression then.

“My name is Lauren Kinney,” she repeated. “I help people.”

The phrase felt more right than anything she had ever said before, and Lauren knew that in this moment, she had found something resembling a new home.

_**Elsewhere** _

Tavi cracked his eyes open to sunlight and groaned. _This again._ The world resolved, as he knew it would, a second later: the light was filtering through the leaves of a large tree. 

This was hardly his first visit: after five years, he knew how this went. His bones ached as he sat up and stretched, enjoying the murmur of voices around him, punctuated by the wind and occasional shrieks of laughter. 

As far as he knew, this place only existed in Tavi's dreams. This was the tree he'd climbed when he was eight, knowing his injuries wouldn't carry over into wakefulness; there was the hot dog cart that came and went, its presence charting what year he had woken up in; there was the graveyard with only two headstones, the one that had appeared when he was ten, on the night he had expected nothing but nightmares--the one that would only grow, despite his best efforts. 

Aside from the graves, it looked like Cowen Park, near the neighborhood he'd grown up in. It wasn't exactly the same; it never was. This wasn't the Seattle of the present, but Seattle as it could be, decades down the road. 

Now that he was listening, he could hear trucks backing up and shouted orders as the day's work began on the nearby construction sites. This far from the heart of the city, the damage wasn't nearly as extensive, and the West Coast had been largely spared the bombing inflicted on the East Coast. Tavi knew that if he were able to see it from the park, he would see the Space Needle towering over downtown, unscathed. 

He stood up and brushed off his legs, glad for his habit of going to bed in a t-shirt and boxer shorts. The hot-dog stand was empty at this time of day. The vendor looked glad for the early customer as he forked the money over to them. 

Tavi took a bite and inhaled its scent happily as he wandered down the path, enjoying the heat of the sun of his shoulders. 

"Shaping up to be a hot one, isn't it?" 

Tavi nearly dropped the hot dog in surprise. The boy, a few years younger than him, seemed to have appeared out of nowhere—Tavi certainly hadn't heard him walk up. He glanced over and ran a quick assessment. His brown hair and fair skin seemed to shimmer in the sunlight, and his facial structure bore a superficial resemblance to Tavi's own. That glint in his eyes, though—he looked like someone Tavi knew but couldn't quite place. 

"I wasn't sure this would work, actually," he continued. "It seemed implausible, to say the least. But," he said, "it did, and you're here and I'm here and we _really_ need to talk."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote that Lauren uses by André Gide. 
> 
> Tavi's condition, sexual ambiguity (also known as hermaphroditism, although that term has fallen out of favor), actually does exist, though Tavi's ability to both father and carry children is most likely impossible. For more information, Google either 'intersex' or 'true hermaphroditism'.
> 
> The last scene is mostly copied from Chapter Two of [The Story the Rings Told](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9820977/1/The-Story-the-Rings-Told) over on Fanfiction.net. (Fun fact: I pulled my username from that fic.) I write as KJtheELMtree over there; feel free to check out my writing. Please review!


	5. Metal and Lightning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 13 September 2016: 
> 
> This is the final draft of this chapter. As I finish the last few chapters of this fic, I will be rewriting previous chapters until I'm confident that this fanfic is as readable and enjoyable as I can make it. I will repost chapters as they are revised.
> 
> Please leave a review on your way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: emotional abuse; domestic violence
> 
> Disclaimer: The storms that set the background for this chapter are entirely made up. Also, I have never been exposed to emotional abuse, and the depiction here is based off of my research.
> 
> "Mana" means "Mom". "Baba" means "Dad". 
> 
> "Natalija" is the Croatian form of "Natalie." 
> 
> "A thaisce" is an Irish endearment that means "my treasure," and is pronounced "uh HESH-kuh". 
> 
> "Mišu" is a Croatian endearment that means "mouse." 
> 
> Catholic children are usually given a [saint's name](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint%27s_name) as or in addition to their middle name at their baptism. 
> 
> The name "Mealla" is pronounced "MYAL-uh." 
> 
> PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: If you suspect that you or someone you know is being emotionally abused, please [check](http://www.fortrefuge.com/emotional-abuse-tactics.php) [out](http://dayoneservices.org/what-is-emotional-abuse/) [these](http://www.healthyplace.com/abuse/emotional-psychological-abuse/emotional-abuse-help-support-and-recovery/) [great](http://stoprelationshipabuse.org/educated/types-of-abuse/emotional-abuse/) [resources](http://www.bandbacktogether.com/emotional-abuse-resources/). Remember that abuse comes in many forms, and that it is never the victim's fault. Your race, gender, orientation, age, and relationship to the abuser do not matter. Anyone can become a victim of abuse. Document all incidents, no matter how minor they seem, because it will go great lengths in getting a conviction. Create a support network; if you are socially isolated, your neighbors, coworkers, and online friends are your best allies, and will keep you safe when you leave. Inform whoever you'll be staying with that you cannot leave your children and/or pets at the mercy of your abuser, and make sure they're prepared to take them in as well. You owe your abuser nothing.

_**Arta, Epirus, Greece • 20 June 2004** _

The rain came down in sheets, sluicing away yesterday’s mud. Elisavet Argyris shivered as thunder rumbled. It wasn’t the thunder that she minded; it was the lighting that preceded it that made her jump and cower. 

One such flash lit the sky now, sending her burrowing into the blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Her hot chocolate remained on the table, abandoned. 

Elisavet’s sister jerked awake and scrambled to her side as the answering clap sounded and jammed her hands over her own ears. At seven, Penelope was four years Lise’s junior, and she was terrified of thunder. 

Lise wrapped her arms around her little sister and looked around the room. When the storm hit, dozens of people on the street had taken shelter under its roof. The women’s shelter was now crowded beyond capacity, and was likely to remain so all night. 

Lise felt a bit uncomfortable with so many men resembling their father nearby. They had fled here two months ago after Mana died. Their father had been taken to jail, leaving Lise, Penelope, and their older sister, Agathe, to fend for themselves. Fortunately the shelter had offered to take them in until Agathe found a place to stay. 

At this time of night, most people were asleep, even the few who had crowded into the main room to watch the storm. The only sound was quiet breathing and the occasional snuffling. Penelope had fallen back asleep. Lise was the only one still awake. 

Agathe was nowhere in sight, so Lise wrapped her blanket around her little sister. She panicked briefly, reaching for her kit, and relaxed when she found it at her side. 

She slipped past the front door and into the silence of the storm. 

Out in the streets, no one was around, the rain having driven everyone indoors. The bone-dry road had soaked up every drop it could hold, and the excess pooled around Lise's ankles, soaking the bottom of her pajamas legs. It sloshed and splashed, marking her tread as she trudged through the streets of her childhood city. 

Suddenly, the ancient cobblestones turned familiar, even as they wobbled beneath her feet. Lise stopped and stared at a pretty little house on the corner and took a few steps toward it, wanting desperately to at least stand on the porch once more. 

She shook herself. It wouldn't do to get lost in the past. She walked on, following a slight noise in her ears that turned into whispering as it got louder. 

A pile of metal sat in an alley two blocks away, haphazardly thrown there by careless residents too lazy to recycle. Lise picked up a soda can in one hand and pulled a knife out of her kit with the other. She sat down on a piece of siding and absentmindedly started cutting the can into strips and welding them back together with a lighter. The metal was mercifully dry, with no standing water in the alley and an overhang keeping the rain off. 

A body began to take shape. Lise didn't solder the limbs on; instead, she connected them with rods, so they could move. Picking a battery up off the ground, she started building a motor for it. 

Her hands flew as she wrapped the wire around the battery and sanded the ends so it stood alone as a loop. She found two paperclips in her pocket and unbent them so she could tape them to the battery to hold the wire. 

Lise held a magnet in her hand and flicked the wire. It started spinning, and kept spinning as long as she held the magnet in place. Nodding, Lise carefully slid the battery into the torso, keeping it horizontal. She held it up to eye level, admiring her half-made creation. 

"Mighty impressive, kiddo." 

_**Bray, County Wicklow, Ireland** _

Nearly three thousand miles away, a different girl was embroiled in a different storm. “Dad, for the last time, I didn’t kiss Donovan Bryant!” Natalie Tesla yelled at her parents. 

"You know better than to talk back to us, Natalija," her father warned. 

Natalie swallowed back her retort and dipped her gaze to the ground, fists curling at her sides. No matter what she said, it would only make the fight worse. 

"I am sick and tired of this behavior, Talija," Dad began. "How can we trust you if you lie about where you are?" 

_I always text you whenever I leave the house,_ Natalie thought tiredly, _and then you check my phone when I get home to make sure I went where I said I went._

"Honestly, you shouldn't even be alone with boys at your age—" 

_It's not like my classmates are concerned about that._

"—no one will want to marry you if your reputation is tarnished." 

_I'm twelve. Marriage is a long ways away._

"You stay out at all hours—" 

_I'm always home by eight._

"—in questionable company—" 

_Ronan and Marjorie are hardly 'questionable company.'_

"—doing God knows what!" 

"Dad, you know where I was," Natalie interrupted. "I was at the coffee shop with my friends." 

"Don't interrupt your father, _a thaisce,"_ her mother said patiently. "You'll only make him angrier." 

Natalie bit her lip. 

_"Mišu,_ you know we only want what's best for you." Her father's voice had gone gentle, but there was still an edge to it. "We feed you and house you, and give you nice clothes..." 

Her mother added, "We send you to a good school, and make sure you do your homework." 

"We hoped and prayed that God would grant us a child, and when your mother became pregnant, we shouted in joy. You are a miracle, sweet Natalie. We just want to keep you safe, _mišu._ With everything we do for you, don't you think you owe us—" 

"Dad—" 

"Natalija Mealla Jelena Tesla, how _dare_ you interrupt me!" 

White-hot pain exploded across her cheek as the force of the slap knocked her head to the side. Her hand flew to her face, and she saw red, hot with ten years' rage at the hands of abuse disguised as concern and control masquerading as a strict upbringing. 

_Daughter of Taranis, avenge yourself!_

"I. Owe. You. Nothing." 

_**Arta** _

Lise spun around so quickly she thought she had whiplash for a second. 

The owner of the deep voice limped toward her, holding a lantern that illuminated his full beard and scarred arms. "Saint Mary, mother of God," Lise breathed. "You're Hephaestus." 

The god smiled and put a finger to his lips. "Sh, I'm not supposed to be here." He sat down next to her and took a look at the knee joints in her robot. "Oh, so you're using rubber bands to move the legs? That'll work. How will you turn it on and off?" 

"Right now, I'm putting a magnet in its head to get the coil to move. I'll have to keep the magnet spinning so that the coil will spin. When it's off, there'll be a layer of insulating material between the two that can be moved out of the way with this switch. Do you have anything that would work?" 

Hephaestus solemnly produced a cotton handkerchief. Lise took it and wrapped it around the rod she'd inserted through a small hole in the neck, stretching it around a wire frame as she built it and trimming off the excess. "Here you go," she told him, handing him the remnants of the cloth. She taped a disk to the outside part of the switch so it would stay balanced and fastened the head and neck to the torso. The god took the little robot from her and set it down on the corrugated iron. 

They held their breaths after Lise pressed the switch down. After an interminable second, the robot groaned to life with the scraping of metal on metal. It trundled jerkily across the metal sheet. "What will you do with it?" Hephaestus asked. 

A soft smile tugged at her lips. "I'm going to give it to my little sister. She'll love it." Her eyes started prickling with tears. "She's been through so much in the last few months, she needs all the good things she can get..." 

"Hard year?" commented the god. 

"My father killed my mother." 

There. It was out in the open. Lise finally allowed herself to acknowledge what had happened. She'd spent months in quiet denial, even during the trial and the sentencing; it felt strange to admit the truth. 

"She's dead, and he's in prison, and there's no going back to how it was before—not that I want to, between the constant fighting and how Baba would take his frustration out on me and my sisters. I kind of hate him for that, but I _shouldn't._ He's my blood family—I'm supposed to love him, no matter what he does. At least, that's what everyone says." 

"Family isn't all it's cracked up to be," Hephaestus said quietly. 

Lise nodded. "You're right. Blood doesn't matter, not if they throw you off the top of Mount Olympus. Anyway—" she picked up the robot "—I should probably get this to Penelope." 

"Do you hear that?" Hephaestus asked suddenly. 

While Lise had been ruminating, the rained had ceased. One last lightning bolt struck the building across the street, as if the storm was saying, _I’ll be back_. Then the wind began pushing the clouds west, and Lise jumped up from her metal chair and raced to get a better look from the street, wondering at this turn of events. 

She looked back to see if Hephaestus was following, but he had vanished just as mysteriously as the storm. 

_**Somewhere in the North Atlantic** _

A storm was raging off of Iceland, knocking a small fishing boat about, when suddenly the clouds dispersed and drifted inexorably eastward. 

One fisherman looked at the other, bemused. “Well, Olaf, we might as well head in while the weather’s good. We got a good catch before the storm hit; we might as well call it a day.” 

The other nodded in relief. “It ain’t right, a storm just vanishin’ like that. We better go now before somethin’ worse comes along.” 

_**Sweden** _

Those who were still awake poked their heads outside when the rain stopped. An Arctic storm had been battering the area for hours, but it vanished in seconds. 

_**Belarus** _

A farmer smiled up at the sky, or more precisely, at the clouds promising rain. He had been up late dealing with a sick cow, and he hoped a decent crop would offset the costs of that Lumpy Skin disease going around the area. 

His hopes for rain were dashed as the clouds turned and vanished to the west. He shrugged and headed back into the house. 

_**Tunisia** _

A girl in a headscarf looked up at the sky, wondering where the clouds were going. She had been wandering the streets for several hours and didn’t want to be sent home, but there was a woman in a niqab nearby. The small child spent a moment imagining the woman to be a Bedouin and inviting her on all sorts of nomadic adventures, then shook it off and walked up to her. 

“Excuse me, but do you know where all the clouds are going?” 

The woman looked up at the sky and wondered the same thing. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice muffled by the veil. 

They stood and watched as the clouds raced away. 

_**Bray** _

All over Europe and the Atlantic, clouds turned from where they were going and raced for Ireland, spinning into thunderheads along the way. 

They gathered over County Wicklow as Natalie lost control of her anger. A broiling mass of darkness descended, called by her fury. Rain poured down in buckets. Hailstones dropped so thickly it seemed to be snowing. The lightning, though—the lightning danced across the landscape, setting fires and shorting out power. The Tesla house fell into darkness. 

Natalie’s father stared at his daughter’s face in the light of a flashlight. He traded his fury for a stunned silence when he saw the look of pure rage, held in check only by iron self-control and a terror of losing it. 

All around them, thunder roared its war cry. Natalie’s mind burned, but she forced herself to breathe. "You heard me. I owe you nothing." 

"You impertinent—" 

"You hold everything you do for me over my head, except almost all of it is what parents are supposed to do without expecting a reward. You track my every move and mock me in public. I know what abuse is, _Dad,_ and I'm not going to take it anymore. I'm gone." 

She grabbed her backpack from the floor and stormed off into the rain, sparks dancing off her skin. 

The ground was already muddy. She slipped several times. But she walked on, strong in her defiance—for but a moment, the queen of the storm.

After all, it was only fitting for a child descended from the god of thunder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Jelena" is the Croatian form of [Helena](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Helena_\(empress\)).
> 
> Lise is not a daughter of Hephaestus. Natalie, however, is descended from both the Irish and the Slavic gods of thunder—Taranis on her mother's side and Perun on her father's side, respectively.
> 
> "Saint Mary, mother of God" translates to "Ágios María, i mitéra tou Theoú" in Greek, at least according to Google Translate. 
> 
> Yes, Lumpy Skin Disease is an actual cow disease. The research I did when I first wrote this indicated that there was an epidemic in Eastern Europe in 2004. Unfortunately, I'm going to have to admit I was wrong on this one: the disease did not reach the European continent until 2013, and was confirmed to be in the European Union when an epidemic broke out in Bulgaria in April 2016. 
> 
> Y'all better appreciate the robot—I put in more effort researching that than I've ever done for this fic. (As in, I actually went and asked someone how it would work instead of relying on the Wiki rabbit hole.)
> 
> For learning how to build a simple engine, check out [this](http://www.instructables.com/id/How-to-Make-a-Simple-Motor/) and [this](https://www.reference.com/hobbies-games/make-battery-powered-toy-car-dfea4c2d7d281693). The first is the one I used for Lise's robot.
> 
> There's a quick cameo from a future character. I'll tell you who when their chapter goes up.


	6. Interlude II: patterns and expectations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Old patterns and expectations have broken down, but new ideas seem fragmentary, unrealistic, and often contradictory."-Peggy Orenstein
> 
> 5 May 2017: 
> 
> This is the final draft of this chapter. As I finish the last few chapters of this fic, I will be rewriting previous chapters until I'm confident that this fanfic is as readable and enjoyable as I can make it. I will repost chapters as they are revised.
> 
> Please leave a review on your way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I am incredibly unfamiliar with the geography of Houston. There may be a residential area that has a park, a café, a church, and a branch of the public library all within walking distance, but I can't pin down an exact location. By the way, I am not even remotely fluent in Russian, and I may have mixed up some of the terms. 
> 
> Notes: 
> 
> [Fourteen](https://www.dol.gov/general/topic/youthlabor/agerequirements) is the federal minimum age for employment, with restricted hours for those under sixteen. Eighteen is the minimum for any job the Department of Labor deems [hazardous](https://www.dol.gov/general/topic/youthlabor/hazardousjobs). 
> 
> Дедушка (Dedushka) is the Russian word for 'grandfather.' Дедуля (Dedulya) is an informal version, according to [the Internet](http://www.funrussian.com/2013/01/20/family-russian/). 
> 
> Тётя (Tetya) means 'aunt'. 
> 
> Папочка (Papachka) is a dimunitive of Папа (Papa), which in turn is the Russian equivalent of 'Dad' as opposed to Отец (Otets), meaning 'Father'. 
> 
> 'Qin' is pronounced 'Chin'.

_**Ariel’s Café, Houston, Texas • 21 June 2004** _

Ariel was drying glasses when she walked in. The girl stopped at the door and her eyes darted around the room before settling on Ariel, taking in her blue tank top and the tattoos that were currently visible. Evidently coming to a decision, the girl dropped her bag on the nearest chair and walked up to the counter. 

"Um... hi," she said shyly. "Are you hiring?" 

Ariel set the glass down and leaned on her elbows. "That depends," she said. "How old are you?" 

"Sixteen." Her eyes darted to the floor. 

"Yeah, right." Ariel examined her. "I'd say... twelve? Thirteen?" 

The girl snorted. "Try fifteen years and eight months." 

Ariel shrugged. "Eh. I was close." 

"Can I have a root beer?" she asked, digging out some spare change. 

Along with a glass from the fridge, Ariel handed her a job application and pen. The girl's eyes lit up, and she filled out the application with record speed in between gulps of soda. "Here you go." She drained her soda and pushed the glass toward Ariel, thrust the paper at her and slid off her stool in the same motion. Without breaking stride, she picked up her backpack and was out the door in seconds. 

Ariel looked over the application, then reached for the phone. "Hey, Clark? It's Ariel, down at the café. Yeah, she just left. She came in to apply for a job, but she didn't put her last name..." 

_**Camp Jupiter, Oakland, California • 23 June** _

Nadia was suspicious of the new boy. He pretended to be the spoiled scion of a wealthy family with a long history at camp, but his mien didn't match his mask. 

He snapped at everyone, but never spoke without being spoken to. He'd supposedly grown up in the pampered heights of Seattle's Ravenna neighborhood, but had a thousand-yard stare she more often saw in her own grandfather's eyes. During the Winter War, he had narrowly escaped death at the hands of a Finnish sniper, but the new boy walked as if in the cross hairs of a far more accurate marksman. 

He'd seen things, terrible things, despite his comfortable upbringing. (And if she thought of Dedushka Andrei's scars and Dedulya Vadim's war-haunted eyes, of the night Tetya Inna refused to speak of, no one would ever know.)

So Nadia watched, and waited, observing the new boy and the way he behaved, looking for her chance. She saw the few books he'd brought with him, all signed and by the same author. She looked at the photos he kept between their pages and saw the love in the young woman's smile. She found the timeline next to his bed, and must have imagined the hope and despair pouring off the carbon scratches on the page. 

One day, she would sit with him, and talk to him, and learn what he had been through and how he had changed. (And if she thought of Justin's smile, of Papachka's fight to bring his family to the paradise they thought America was, well... That was between her, and God.) 

_**Powell residence, Houston, Texas • 24 June • Evening** _

“Preston, get back here!” Lauren screamed from down the hallway. 

Clay cautiously poked his head around the bathroom door, searching for any sign that he'd be caught in the crossfire of sibling vengeance, but his only glimpse of the object of Lauren's ire came as Preston disappeared around a corner. 

“…Why does he have a pair of your socks on his head?” 

Lauren looked exasperated. “I don’t even want to know.” 

Preston giggled from two rooms away. 

_**Houston Public Library, Houston, Texas • 26 June** _

After work, Lauren met up with Leo at the library. He was waiting for her on the bench outside, looking dejected. 

"What's wrong?" she asked, offering him his sandwich. 

He took a bite. "Foster care figured out I was living on the street," he said, swinging his legs. "I'm going to a new family tomorrow." 

"Don't talk with your mouth full," she reminded him, reaching over to brush a lock of hair behind his ear. "Do you know who?" 

He shrugged. "Some family called the Garcias. I'm supposed to meet them this afternoon. The social worker lady said they have three kids and they live a few miles away so I can't come visit as much." 

Lauren smoothed back a few unruly curls. "That's not too far. You can still walk here," she suggested hopefully. 

Leo's shoulders hunched under her hand. "I don't want to go with them." His voice broke. "I don't want leave this place. I don't want to leave you and Ashley and the other kids. Why can't I stay on the street?" 

She started rubbing his back. "Because people worry about kids they've never met, and they just want to make sure you have a roof over your head and get enough to eat. They mean well, at least." He leaned into her; she could feel his small frame trembling even as he chewed. "Hey, it'll work out," she promised. "And if it doesn't—here, give me your arm." A pen was pulled out of one her many hiding places and uncapped. "If _anything_ goes wrong, _call me_ ," she grunted through the cap lodged between her teeth. 

He pulled back and examined the number scribbled on his arm. "I will," Leo told her in a long-suffering tone. 

Hearing a car pull up and a woman call Leo's name, she chuckled lightly. "Get going, kiddo. Time to meet the demons." 

She slumped back on the bench as she watched him climb into the social worker's van. For a moment, it seemed like the sun cast a halo around his body. But only for a moment. 

_**Camp Jupiter • 29 June** _

Tavi twirled a pencil between his fingers, bobbing his head to the music blaring from a boombox left by a previous augur. The page in front of him held only chicken scratch and a few notes that made no sense. While he was trying to concentrate, it seemed that the vision had completely slipped away from him. 

Completely frustrated, he slapped the notebook shut and pulled himself to his feet before striding across the room to the corner desk and the cabinet next to it. 

This eight-foot-tall cabinet was the legion's most important treasure, in his opinion. After all, it held the combined knowledge of generations of augurs, from Camp Jupiter's Chinese origins to the modern day. The top two shelves were perennially locked, as well as sealed against moisture to preserve the scraps of paper within. On the third shelf sat the first of piles of notebooks, each neatly labeled with the augur's name and tenure. Sometime in the fifties, the then-augur had made it her project to translate and transfer the old records into spiral notebooks, and every augur since had followed her careful organization. 

Tavi's space sat empty on the sixth shelf, still waiting for its first full notebook. The current augur had labeled it for him, with _Dalton, Octavian_ and the date of her retirement written neatly on a piece of tape. 

"Hey, intern!" Lizzie Anglemeyer strode into the temple and threw her coat at the back of his head. 

Before it hit the ground, Tavi caught it and headed for the coat rack. "You're perfectly capable of hanging up your own coat, Liz," he tutted over his shoulder. 

"Nonsense," Lizzie replied. "What's the point of having an intern if they won't do your menial chores?" 

"I'm not your intern!" 

"You kind of are," Lizzie pointed out. "At the very least, I'm training you as my replacement. Were you skulking around my desk earlier?" 

"Soon to be my desk, and no, I was not." Tavi arrived just in time to catch Lizzie's current notebook as it fell onto the floor. "I must have knocked some things askew while I was getting at the cabinet." 

"You just can't wait to start your own pile, can you?" Lizzie had finished straightening out the clutter on her desk and was looking through the cabinet. "Do you have any idea where I left off?" 

"Excuse you! I can be quite patient when necessary. And you always leave a bookmark at your stopping point." 

"Ah-ha!" She pulled a few journals off the fourth shelf and slammed the half-pile down on her desk. "Now where are my reading glasses?" 

Tavi rolled his eyes. "They're in the same drawer they're always in, Liz." 

The redhead leaned back in her chair, so far Tavi thought she was going to tip over, and pulled the center drawer out until it bumped into her chest. Another exclamation escaped her lips when she grasped the case. "Oh, intern, what would I ever do without you?" 

"Again: not an intern." Tavi scratched the back of his neck. "And you'd be far less annoyed at the world." 

"The world is always annoying, Tav, it's hardly your fault." With her glasses firmly on her nose, Lizzie picked up her pen and flipped open the first notebook, searching for parts where the ink had faded into near-illegibility. It was a thankless task, but it staved off having to recopy the notebook in its entirety. Of course, it would have to be recopied eventually, but that would soon be Tavi's responsibility, not hers. 

"I'm going to the bathroom," Tavi called as he slipped out a side door. 

"Plumbing's on the fritz," she called back without lifting her head, still squinting at the faint passage dated 1929. Tavi might have responded, but she didn't hear him, already lost in the words of a long-dead prophet.

* * *

Tavi groaned and rubbed at the ache in his hip. He had noticed it yesterday, along with a sinking feeling in his stomach. Now that he knew what was causing it, his first instinct was to call his mom, but she was probably at work, and the nearest phone was in the principia. 

Instead, he sank to the hallway floor and buried his head in his hands. It was going to be a long week. 

_**30 June** _

Nadia was standing in line to get lunch when she got her chance to speak to Octavian. As always, she'd kept an eye out for him; today, his bright green shorts made that easier than usual, but they also made it easy to see the flash of red on his inner thigh. 

After a double take, the red was still there. Nadia narrowed her eyes in suspicion. It was simple enough to slip out of the line and over to where he was standing; casually, she snagged his arm and pulled him away from the crowd. Once they were out of earshot, she hissed, “Dude, you’re bleeding. Are you okay?” 

He looked dumbfounded for a moment. Nadia surreptitiously sniffed the air, catching a hint of metal. At least one of the First Cohort barracks would be empty, she decided, and pulled him into its relative solitude. 

The closing door echoed in the quiet. Nadia sat down on a hastily-made bed and patted the mattress next to her. Octavian sat between her and the door, warily; the poor boy looked ready to bolt. 

The scent of iron and salt was stronger than ever. When Octavian shifted his weight, he left a red smear on the fitted sheet. 

Nadia nodded at the forming stain. "Were you injured?" 

Blushing, he shook his head. 

A slight suspicion began niggling at the back of Nadia's mind. She pushed it aside and jumped up to dart into the bathroom. 

When she came back out, he was still sitting on the bed, exactly where she had left him. The plastic wrapping on one of her prizes crinkled between her fingers as she held it up. "Is this what you need?" 

Octavian flinched, harder than she'd expected him to. "Are you going to call me a freak?" he wondered quietly, and hunched his shoulders up to his chin, as though trying to disappear. 

"Hell no. It's not even remotely my place to judge you. I mean, you were born with it, right? It's not like you can change it on a dime." 

"Yeah, I guess you're right," muttered Octavian. 

Nadia spread the pads out on the bed. “Okay, when did you start?” 

“Yesterday.” 

She instantly pulled out the thickest square, remembering what Matilda had managed to teach her, even as they scrambled for resources. “So it’s really easy to open these—you just tear into the plastic. Then you have to unfold the pad itself—it’s folded into thirds. See this strip of plastic on the back?” 

Tavi nodded. 

“That’s covering the sticky part of the pad—don’t take it off yet! Go grab some clean underwear and shorts and head into the bathroom.” 

He came out, feeling like he was waddling. She was waiting for him. “Better?” 

“It feels like I’m wearing a giant cotton ball.” 

“You’ll get used to it.” She stuck out her hand. “Nadia Asimilova.” 

“Octavian Dalton.” 

At least they’d be able to look back on this and laugh. 

_**The Powell residence • 2 July** _

“Preston, give me back my sock.”

“Make me!” 

_**Camp Jupiter • 4 July** _

Poke. "I'm not touching you." 

Poke. "I'm still not touching you." 

Poke—

"Nadia, would you stop!" 

"Never." Poke. "Ooh! Did you see that one? It was shaped like the U. S.!" 

Poke. 

"I'm going to shove you off the blanket." 

"Yeah, right." Poke. 

"Onto the cold, hard ground, and the itchy, itchy grass..." 

"No, you won't. You love me too much." 

"I've known you for four days!" 

Poke. 

"Nadia!" 

"Guys, would you stop it?" someone hissed at them. 

Nadia learned that Tavi gave as good as he got, when it came to poking contests. 

Tavi learned that making Nadia faceplant in the grass was Not Good, on the order of days of coughing and sneezing and enough snot to use up half a Kleenex box. 

"Why didn't you _tell_ me you were allergic to grass?!" 

_**Camp Jupiter • 10 July** _

Lizzie passed Tavi the flashlight. "Now pay attention." She stepped up the wall of the side corridor, with its pattern of light and dark squares, and rapped on five of them. Tavi had noticed that those squares were darker than the ones nearby and spent no more thought on it, but Lizzie knocked on them with purpose, in a pattern that Tavi didn't quite catch. 

The floor rumbled—no, not the floor, Tavi realized. It was the wall in front of them. A three-foot-wide section retreated and split into two, like the doors of an elevator. A dark room waited beyond. 

Lizzie signaled for him to stay and walked through the opening. "Close your eyes!" she called over her shoulder. 

Seconds later, he opened them, and gasped. Lizzie smirked and spread her arms. "Welcome to the Vault." 

The room was bathed in the low light of kerosene lamps and wallpapered with a timeline that put his to shame. It was slightly smaller than his bedroom at home, but clean and well-organized. Heavy tomes rested on evenly spaced tables, and the words carved on the back wall dominated the room. "Aequum enim nos... damnamur?" Tavi blinked. "'It is right that we are condemned?'" 

"'For our duty, we are damned,'" Lizzie corrected gently. "It's the motto of every precognitive in the world. From cradle to grave, those six words are the reminder that no matter how much good we do, how many lives we save, we are damned for the ones that we can't save—and the ones we have to take. This Vault—" she gestured widely, encompassing the room— "isn't just a room full of predictions and probabilities. Underneath this temple is the world's largest repository of knowledge about the future—and it's the augur's job to catalogue and safeguard it all." 

Deeper into the temple they went, through another hidden door and down a spiral staircase. "We get new material from all over the world, usually once or twice a week. Most of the time, it's something old from a new angle. But sometimes..." 

Lizzie flipped the light switch at the bottom of the stairs. She took no heed of the room beyond, even as Tavi stopped in his tracks. 

He didn't notice how long he had been staring until a weight fell into his hands. They were farther underground than he'd thought, if the arching ceilings were any indication. The room was far larger than the temple, with dusty bookcases spanning from wall to wall. Old-fashioned computers sat at wooden desks, turned off for the moment, though the power strips beneath them glowed. Tavi immediately knew that the room held far more than just prophecies—it could have contained the whole of human history and still have room for more, though he suspected that might have been an exaggeration. 

The book in his hands—the one Lizzie had made a beeline for—was old and tattered, fat with loose papers and newspaper clippings. On printer paper tucked into the very first page, drawn in charcoal and colored pencil and just a little smudged, was Lauren's smiling face. 

"Sometimes, it's everything." 

_**The Powell residence • 11 July** _

Clay stared down the hallway. “Seriously, what is it with that kid and your clothes?” 

Lauren shrugged. 

_**Camp Jupiter • 13 July** _

Tavi's back hurt from sitting hunched over for too long, but he didn't really mind. Around him, the other kids in the First Cohort's junior barracks whispered to each other, which he was trying to ignore. The book Lizzie had given him had captured his attention with how casually it discussed the future, like it was a halfway-mapped tangle of back roads in his home state instead of a foreign country. 

Rodrigo came in. "Lights out!" he announced. Tavi barely noticed. "Dalton, that includes you." 

With the sheets pulled up tight around him, his mind raced. He wasn't the only one who had a basic map to the future. He wasn't the only one who knew that war was coming. 

For the first time, he knew he wasn't alone. 

_**Tanglewood Park, Houston • 14 July** _

A paper airplane hit Lauren in the back of the head. She turned around and saw Cory in his blue Captain America shirt, waving at her. 

"Hey, Cor!" she said to him, crossing the distance between them. "What's up?" 

"Hey, Lauren, meet my cousin, Ashley." He tugged a thin, pale girl forward; Lauren was reminded of worn-out chalk. "I told her you could help her." 

Internally, Lauren winced, but she faked a smile anyway, and held out her hand. "I'm already thinking this will be an interesting story. Why don't we sit down?"

* * *

Ashley did her best to hide behind her cousin until they sat down and she couldn't hide anymore. Leo'd said this teenager was a good person. Ashley figured it was just a matter of time before she showed her true colors; no way would a girl like Lauren just _help_ someone, just like that, for _free._

Lauren smiled at her and sat down on the ground so they were sitting next to each other. Ashley looked everywhere but at her face: people got _weird_ if you looked 'em in the eye, she'd found. They got even weirder if you touched 'em, even if they asked you to, and it made the whispers louder, so Ashley knew how to keep her hands to herself. Lauren had sure dropped her hand in a hurry, earlier, when she'd asked Ashley to shake it. That was another point against her, in Ashley's opinion. 

"Here. Do you want some apple juice?" Lauren pulled out a plastic bag and pulled some juice boxes out of it. 

Ashley looked at them, annoyed. Just how old did this girl think she _was?_

"Not too old for apple juice, I should hope." Ashley's face flushed. She'd said that out loud? "I'm still young enough for juice boxes, so I figured you'd be, too." As if to make it clearer, Lauren took a long slurp from her own juice box, still holding the other one out to Ashley. 

Ashley took it. 

"So why did you need my help?" 

Maybe this girl wasn't so bad, but Ashley's mouth stayed shut. That little smile on Lauren's face was starting to annoy her. 

Secrets were secrets. She knew how to keep them, especially to save her own hide. But that little smile... 

That little smile, soft and gentle and welcoming, pulled the story straight from her lips, and the whispers on the wind got louder. 

_**Berkeley, California • 18 July** _

The boy that slid into the extra chair was Lauren's age, with brown hair and dimples Tavi was immediately jealous of. "So, are you the new intern?" 

"I'm not an intern," Tavi muttered, slouching down in his seat. 

"Yeah, dude, you are. Hot chocolate for you, a latte for me, and—let me guess—one zebra mocha frappucino with extra whipped cream." Lizzie slid the drink across the table to the new guy. 

"Thanks," he said happily. 

"So, yeah! Nick, this is Octavian the Intern," she said over Tavi's protests. "Tavi, meet Nick... what name are you using right now?" 

Nick shrugged. "I'm back to my birth name, for the time being. I'd tell you, but... whatever, I doubt the government's listening. Nicholas Richter," he said, extending his hand. "Patriarch of the Richter clan." 

"Clan?" Tavi raised an eyebrow. 

"One of the major families of the supernatural world," Lizzie explained. She rolled her eyes at Tavi's expression. "Yes, there's more to the world than just the Roman gods. Don't look so surprised."

"Oh my gods. Oh, my _gods,"_ Nick wheezed. "Your _face_. It is _hilarious."_

Lizzie reached over and closed his mouth. "You were gaping," she informed him. 

"Yeah, so the clans are pretty important. Almost every area of the supernatural has at least one clan representing them, which makes for about two dozen that are officially recognized," Nick said. "The preter world is pretty much run by the clan council—you know, the clan heads and their immediate successors." He leaned back and laced his hands behind his head, grinning. "Watching them all jockey for power is actually pretty funny. This one time—"

"Nick, you're getting off topic." 

"Right. So, two dozen clans—" 

"The Richter clan is one of the oldest," Nadia interjected. 

"We're not that old—maybe four, five hundred years? Definitely not as old as the Qins, or the Rashidis. They're old as _balls,"_ he explained solemnly. 

"Nick, at least _try_ to act your age." 

"If I acted my age, I'd be a pile of dust." A cell phone buzzed; Nick pulled it out and glanced at the screen. "Gotta go! Duty calls. Thanks for the frappucino!" 

Nick—and his zebra frappucino—speed walked away from the table. He quickly vanished into the crowds snaking down the sunlit sidewalk. 

Tavi resisted the urge to rub his temples, where a headache was forming. Was this how Lauren felt _all_ the time? 

_**The Powell residence • 24 July** _

Lauren sighed as she dug through her dresser. 

_“Preston!”_

In response, a pair of socks sailed through the door at her head. 

_**Camp Jupiter • 27 July** _

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Tavi—” 

Octavian didn’t even have to open his eyes to know who was singing so badly. “Go away, Nadia.” 

“Wait, it’s your birthday?” 

“Yeah, I’m thirteen.” 

“Does this mean that we get cake for breakfast?” 

_**The Powell residence • 29 July** _

"Hi, Mom; hey, Dad." Lauren's smile didn't quite reach her eyes as she flopped onto her bed. "Is it Thursday already? Of course it is, why else would you be calling me?" 

"What, we need an excuse to call our favorite younger daughter?" Dad cracked. 

Lauren sighed. "I'm your _only_ younger daughter. You're being a dork again, aren't you?" she accused. 

"Yeah, but—" 

"So how's the weather in Houston?" Mom intervened, before her husband and daughter started trading snark. 

_"Hot,"_ Lauren said fervently. "I don't think it's dropped below eighty all month, and I'm seriously considering getting a haircut, just so it stops sticking to my neck. I'm starting to miss the rain." 

"Well, you won't find any rain here. It hasn't rained in weeks. The slough's all dried up," Dad told her, his voice crackling with static. 

"Poor you," teased Lauren. "Now you have to go find all of Buster's Frisbees, and you can't make me do all the climbing this time, because I'm too far away." 

"Just build a wormhole!" her mother suggested with a note of laughter. "You can come weed the garden, too, while you're at it." 

"Mo-om!" she whined. "I'm a biologist, not an astrophysicist!" 

"When does school start?" Mom asked. 

"Not until September," Lauren groaned. "Which means that I still have a month left in this heat and not much air conditioning." She ran her free hand over her still-flat stomach, feeling self-conscious and slightly guilty that they didn't know. "So, aside from cooler temperatures, what else am I missing in Longview?" 

Mom went off on a tangent about the latest idiocies she'd seen, while Dad got in a few words about his own problems at work. For her part, Lauren inserted stories about the cafe and the library, and "these kids who hang out at the park down the street. I think you'd like them, they're really smart." She didn't mention Leo's pyrokinesis, or Ashley's telepathy-slash-clairvoyance, or any of the other weird-ass abilities people seemed to think she could give advice on. 

"Do you like it in Houston?" 

She paused. Just when she was about to answer no, it was too hot, she thought about the kids who hung out in the park—kids with strange powers and nowhere else to turn who had somehow decided she was a good person to trust, who had poured their souls out to the only listening ear they could find, who had come to _her_ —and come to depend on her—when they had no other options. Like it or not, they'd made Houston her home. 

"Well," she said finally, "it isn't Longview." 

_**Camp Jupiter • 31 July** _

Lizzie sighed and thumped her head on her arms. 

"What's wrong?" 

She waved a piece of paper in the air. "The council wants me to introduce you. They say that you, and I quote, 'must present himself for a proper evaluation of his abilities and training, in order to determine the most efficient and judicious usage thereof.' Blah, blah, blah; blah, blah, blah. Basically, they want to know how good you'll be as their pet fortune-teller." 

Tavi paused. "I thought Nick seemed nice," he said carefully, aware that there seemed to be no love lost between Lizzie and the clan heads. 

"Oh, Nick's all right," she said dismissively. "It's just the other clannies. A lot of them have let the power go to their head. Personally, I think it's a stupid system, letting the heads of a few families run everything. It's basically the definition of an oligarchy, but unless you have another idea, it's the only system we've got." 

The seed of an idea started forming in Tavi's head. 

_**The Powell residence • 1 August** _

Lauren stared at her empty sock drawer in frustration. At least she knew who had taken them. 

_**Camp Jupiter • 3 August** _

“I don’t get it. How is it that my second period can _possibly_ be worse than the first one?” 

“Welcome to the club, Tavi.” 

_**The Powell residence • 4 August** _

“Preston Powell, you haff stolen vun too many pairs of socks. Now you must pay,” Lauren said in her best German accent, wielding a pair of paper-towel tubes that had been taped together. 

Preston cowered and cried, “No! Not the lightsaber!” 

_**Houston • 5 August** _

“Lauren, come over here and check out my snowman!” a boy yelled from across the street. 

Lauren chuckled and crossed the road, enjoying the sunshine. At seven a. m. on a summer morning, it was a surprise that anyone was awake. 

Still huffing slightly from her morning run, she examined the creation. “Looks more like a mud-man to me, Bo,” she cracked. “What did you use?” 

“I found some mud in the backyard.” 

She raised an eyebrow. “‘Found,’ or made?” 

Bo looked at her sheepishly. “Made.” 

“Bo Whitley, what did you do to my garden?” 

“Hi, Mrs. Whitley!” Lauren yelled to Bo’s mother. 

“Hey, Lauren. How’s the baby?” 

“No trouble yet, ma’am.” She slung an arm across her stomach to further the point. 

“Mo-om!” Bo whined. “Come see my snowman!” 

“You mean your mud-man? I’ve been watching from the window.” 

Lauren took the moment to make her escape. Even though she could fake social skills with the best of them, it didn’t make interaction any more pleasant. 

She did, however, wave hello to Mr. Finklestein as she paused to wipe off her glasses, and stopped to pet a harnessed cat, apparently quite enjoying a morning walk. 

She pulled several books out of her bag and slapped them down on the counter after taking a moment to appreciate the air-conditioned library. “Hey, Mrs.… Carter,” she panted. 

The librarian put a finger to her lips and raised her eyebrow. “Did you have a nice run?” she inquired. 

“Are you kidding me? Summers in Texas need to come with a warning label.” 

“They do. It’s called the weather forecast.” 

“Very funny.” She continued, “Meanwhile, I’m dying here, and is the new Meg Rosoff in?” 

The woman smiled and pulled the library's new copy of _How I Live Now_ out from underneath the counter. Lauren grinned. “Thanks, Mrs. Carter!” 

Mrs. Carter sighed. If only all her patrons were that enthusiastic. 

_**Later** _

She’d let her guard down. 

It was stupid. She’d thought that she could carry her small-town naiveté to a big city like Houston without getting hurt. 

She was wrong. 

Now she was lying on a concrete floor, staring up at a concrete ceiling. A boy hovered over her, concern etched on his face. 

“My name is Justin Naismith,” he said, offering her a hand. “Welcome to hell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY SHIT THIS IS FIVE THOUSAND WORDS LONG!!
> 
> Most states have a minimum age of employment of fourteen outside of school hours, and sixteen when school is in session. Some states don't have a minimum age; Oregon and Illinois have the lowest minimum ages in the country. For more, see [here](https://www.dol.gov/whd/state/agriemp2.htm).
> 
> In the U. S., the colloquial term for soft drinks varies by region. In Texas and the rest of the South (New Mexico to the Atlantic), it would be called Coke, regardless of the brand. 'Soda' is common in the Southwest (HI, CA, AZ, and southern Nevada) and the Northeast. 'Pop' is used in the Midwest and Northwest, where I live. 
> 
> I like to imagine that the Finnish sniper mentioned is [Simo Häyhä](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Simo_H%C3%A4yh%C3%A4), also known as the White Death, who was credited with over 700 kills. 
> 
> Very few people were able to [emigrate](http://immigrationtous.net/280-soviet-immigration.html) from the USSR to the United States during the Cold War, mostly political dissidents. Nadia's father got himself, his parents, and his brother out as a teenager just as restrictions were relaxing due to decreasing tensions between the two states. It's not mentioned, but Nadia's uncle is gay, which is why they left. 
> 
> [Grass allergies](https://www.verywell.com/grass-allergy-83186) are fairly common, and grass pollen is especially prevalent in the summertime. Nadia's okay as long as she stays on the blanket, but getting rolled off the blanket—and landing face-first in the grass—is definitely enough to trigger an allergic reaction. 
> 
> ...Sometimes, this fic really makes me wonder about my sanity. Calculating the exact dimensions of the notebook cabinet, how many notebooks an augur would likely go through, and how many notebooks could fit on one shelf—in my head—is one of those times. It's not as bad as the time(s) I got bored and calculated my age in minutes, but it's up there. 
> 
> Juice boxes are exactly what it says on the tin—small cardboard boxes filled with juice with a bendy straw glued to the back. They're mostly associated with preschool and kindergarten (3 to 6 years old, depending on the kid) and to a lesser extent first and second grade (6 to 8 years old). 
> 
> Zebra mocha frappucinos weren't a thing until mid-2005, but screw you, timeline, I'm not doing the research to find a replacement drink. 
> 
> Why yes, that was a Warehouse 13 cameo. 
> 
> July 29, 2004, was indeed a Thursday. Lauren's wrong about the weather, but she's not too far off, since the minimum temperature in Houston that month was just above seventy degrees Fahrenheit (twenty-one degrees Celsius). 
> 
> I couldn't work in a way to mention that Lauren's mom is a security guard, but believe me, security guards see the /weirdest/ shit, especially on night shift.


	7. Healing and Weaving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 13 September 2017: 
> 
> This is the final draft of this chapter. As I finish the last few chapters of this fic, I will be rewriting previous chapters until I'm confident that this fanfic is as readable and enjoyable as I can make it.
> 
> Please leave a review on your way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: A few real-life families and historical figures are mentioned as being tied into the plot. These appear as fictionalized versions of themselves, and should not be confused with their real-life counterparts. 
> 
> Warning: A bit of swearing in the fourth scene. I was going to warn for it, then realized I wouldn't warn for the English translation, then realized that apparently there are only five swear words in the entire revised version so far, so I decided to put a warning. 
> 
> My spelling of Sravana is based on the Wikipedia page [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shraavana).
> 
> Tigers have striped skin as well as striped fur.
> 
> A rakhi (sacred thread) is a cord tied around a boy's wrist, usually by his sister, symbolizing familial love and the bond of siblings. This is done every year during the festival of Raksha Bandhan. 
> 
> Thirty degrees Celsius is around 86 degrees Fahrenheit. 
> 
> 'Sri,' pronounced 'Shree,' is the Hindi equivalent of 'Mister'.
> 
> 'Maan' means 'Mom' in Hindi.
> 
> The Dalit or untouchable caste is the lowest in Hindi society. [Dalits still face widespread discrimination](http://www.telegraphindia.com/1080506/jsp/nation/story_9231504.jsp), even in the modern era; Jem's surname, Kumari, came from that article. 
> 
> Mamae: Mom 
> 
> Anjinho: 'My little angel' in Brazilian Portuguese. Used for a son or daughter. 
> 
> 200 rupaya is roughly equivalent to three American dollars.
> 
> I did not want to use the term 'Sahib,' but apparently that's the correct term, so read it the same way you would read 'Sir' and ignore the echoes of the British colonial period (read: occupation). 
> 
> Vasundhara-rao is Vasundhara Raje, the current Chief Minister of Rajasthan. She was also Chief Minister from 2003-2008. 
> 
> '-rao' is the most common Marathi (language of Maharashtra, where Raje was born) honorific suffix. 
> 
> 'Thiru' is the Tamil version of 'Mister.' 
> 
> 'Garu' is a Telugu honorific, tacked on to the end of someone's full name. 
> 
> Rahul Gandhi is Indira Gandhi's grandson and the Vice-President of the Indian National Congress, a center-left political party. He is currently representing Amethi, Utter Pradesh, in the Lok Sabha (lower) house of Parliament. 
> 
> Tio: Uncle in Portuguese 
> 
> Bisavó: Great-grandmother
> 
> Tia-avó: Great-aunt 
> 
> Bisavô: Great-grandfather
> 
> Primo: Cousin 
> 
> 'Conquistador' is Spanish/Portuguese for 'conqueror' and denotes the navigators/soldiers/explorers/invaders that conquered most of the world in the name of Spain or Portugal back at the start of the 1500s. Pedro Álvares Cabral 'discovered' Brazil in 1500; his first contact was with the[ Tupiniquim tribe](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tupiniquim) of Espírito Santo, one of the [Tupi sub-tribes](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tupi_people). 
> 
> The Carijó also belonged to the Tupi tribe, and lived in the southern coastal region. 
> 
> Pai: Dad/Father
> 
> (Sorry the links got screwed up. They should work now.)

_**New Delhi, Delhi, India • 10 Śrāvaṇa 1926 (1 August 2004)** _

That first full moon, he tied himself up, knotting his own weaving time and time again around the pole supporting their cloth roof. It was less effective than he thought it would be. All night, the moon called to him, dragging his wildest instincts to the surface. 

Purnima sat with him, unafraid, all night. When his skin turned striped and his hair thickened into fur, she ran her fingers down his arm and called it pretty. When his nails lengthened into claws, she held his hand and wondered what they'd look like with polish. When his new rakhi snapped from the strain and fell to the ground, she scooped it up and promised to fix it later. 

"Go. Leave me. You'll be safe," he insisted through gritted fangs. The rope that bound him was starting to fray in his attempts to free himself. 

"I'm not leaving," she replied, scooting closer despite his warnings. Even when the heat of the day had passed, she was sweating in her night clothes as the temperature hovered around thirty degrees. The earlier thunderstorm had moved along, leaving the smell of ozone in the air, but Puri knew that storms clouds lingered in the sky, promising more rain tomorrow. 

Purnima started chattering, telling him about her latest attempt to make a quilt and how the stitches had pulled apart when she picked it up. It meant one more blanket for their living quarters, since it wasn't fit to be sold—"I'll have to undo it and try again," she told him, "but it's just so _frustrating,_ when I can't get it right no matter what I do." 

A fresh struggle cut her off. "Don't _do_ that," she scolded, "you know you're just going to get hurt." Jem stopped trying to break free, but he kept shifting, every moment bringing another subtle change to the underlying muscle and bone. "Oh! You know Sri Kapadia, right? On the next street over? He wants you to come help in his stall next week. I went to see him after the festival, and apparently he has a huge surplus after today, so he needs help selling it all and wants to know if Maan can spare you." 

It was getting harder to think like a human; Jem didn't bother trying. His instincts were too strong. He wanted to run out into the too-loud night, into the jungle away from the air that reeked of _human_ and its inherent underlying threat. He focused instead on his sister's rambling, trying to drown out the city's dead-of-night noise. With Purnima's fingers carding through the fur on top of his head, he curled against her, willing the pounding of his heart to slow down. Somehow, despite his surging adrenaline, Jem slept. 

As Jem's breathing evened out, Purnima slowly trailed off, her throat sore and parched from talking. The tiger laying next to her huffed as he breathed, as if snoring. His tail flicked at the dirt. Her brother looked smaller than the tigers she had seen in pictures, like a human boy in a tiger's skin. 

With Jem safely and soundly asleep, Purnima spared ten seconds to pick up the quilt she had erred with before. Jem growled at her absence but settled when she returned, and Purnima began the laborious task of carefully undoing her stitches, willing herself to stay awake through the long night. 

"Aren't tigers supposed to hunt at night?" she asked the empty air, stitching two pieces together by feel. "I suppose you're just tired, since it's your first time." 

The head in her lap didn't answer. 

"You know, when you came home a few weeks ago covered in blood, Maan thought someone had ordered their dog to attack you. She was ready to hunt them down herself, if no one else would help her." She peered closely at an imperfect stitch, not quite visible in the dim light, and sighed. "I had to talk her out of it. It's no use making trouble, not for the sake of someone in the slums, and especially not for a Dalit. It would only make life harder." She sighed again, at how their mother had almost forgotten their status in the heat of her motherly rage. "She almost went to the police." 

It was too hard to see by the few rays of moonlight that reached into their tent, so Purnima set her stitches down and yawned, wetting her mouth. She had to force herself to stay awake—to watch over her brother, if nothing else—so she rambled on about inane things, about Sri Kapadia's job offer and the latest romantic gossip, pausing sometimes to rest her voice and sip some water. 

"Sometimes," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, "I used to wonder if those stories were true—if our souls are always reborn, if the gods were really watching over us. I wondered if there really were sorcerers casting spells, turning people into animals. I guess—" She stopped scratching Jem's ears, and started caressing his neck. "—if this part is true, then maybe all of it is. Maybe I've been wrong my whole life." Purnima wet her lips again, with the last of the dirt-covered water bottle someone else had thrown out. "I've always admired your faith. Maybe this will restore some of mine." 

The moon was starting to sink to the horizon, it seemed. Jem's breathing changed, becoming softer, less gravelly. The soft, sickening _crunch_ of bones breaking and reforming gave background to the pre-dawn noise. Purnima kept carding her fingers through the fur on her brother's head; slowly, the extra fur sank beneath his skin, thinning until only a human's natural body hair was left. The stripes on his skin faded into mottled gray and copper, and then into a rich, solid brown. A soft creak accompanied his muzzle as it shortened into a human nose and mouth, and Purnima forced down bile when his knees popped, reversing into place. 

Jem's ears and tail took the longest, seemingly melting into his skull and spine, until they disappeared with the last of his fur and left a preteen boy behind, his bound wrists and ankles the only testament to the predator hiding inside.

* * *

"Hey." Jem blinked up at his sister. "How long did I sleep?" 

"All night," she replied, and picked up her sewing. 

_**Rio de Janeiro, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil • 7 August 2004** _

Days before Luis Santos Crespo turned twelve, the book found its way into his life. 

He barely startled at the heavy thud—the cat often knocked books to the floor—before getting up and picking his way to the kitchen bookcase. 

He found the book by almost tripping over it. Cursing under his breath, he grunted when he picked it up, feeling its bulk. It had to have been one of his books; only their books in Braille were that bulky. 

The book didn't feel familiar; neither did the title. _Assim que Você Quer ser um Assistente,_ it said, by Samara Pais. It got lighter in his hands until it weighed the same as one of Mamãe's paperbacks, but the thick leaves didn't get any thinner. 

He took it back to his room, where Mamãe and Ana wouldn't bother him when they got home, sat down on his bed, and opened it. 

The first two pages felt like a table of contents; Luis skipped the ones that came after it, but found himself stuck at the introduction, as if the book itself wasn't letting him read the rest of it without reading that first. 

Luis skimmed through it, only absorbing one word in five. Whatever the book really was—a parody, perhaps?—it took itself very seriously, as if everything it covered—the Creation, the invention of death and entropy, its creator's subsequent expulsion from the ranks of the Powers That Be—was the truth of the world, and every other version was just a pale imitation. He found parallels to Eden in the Species' Choice, and to the idea of the saint in wizards themselves, but beyond that, the similarities to Catholicism—and his frame of reference—seemed to end. 

As he read on, Luis could feel excitement building: he tamped it down ruthlessly. _It's just a joke. That's all it is._

But a joke that promised a sneak peek at the Universe? That was new. 

_...ancient and misunderstood..._

_...not a glamorous business..._

_Wizards love words..._

Luis found himself skimming through discussions of alternate universes, what made a wizard, and the early history of Time. Further on, it seemed to discuss real wizardry, for everything from keeping the rain off to teleportation, all couched in warning after warning. He ran into a section on healing spells, which he filed away for future reference, in case the hospital ever let him come volunteer. 

The rest of the pages—the actual spells—were written in a graceful, curling style that was meaningless to his fingers. It felt the way he imagined Arabic or Hindi would look, save for one section in the back, a directory of some sort, listing every wizard in the city. _Yeah, right_. 

It stopped being funny on the fifth page. 

_CRESPO, Gabriella R. Santos_  
R. Barata Ribeiro, 674 #42, Copacabana  
Rio de Janeiro - RJ, 22051-002, Brazil  
21 5555-5555  
Journeyman (RL +4.1 +/-0.17) 

It couldn't have been a joke. Not with his mother's name embossed there in stark ridges. 

Eventually his fingers dragged him back to the front. He had already found the table of contents; the rest of the opening pages mirrored any other book: a few blank pages at the start, a title page, a copyright page with the letters crammed tightly together. The first page with any real information, however, held a simple block of text, no paragraph breaks, evenly spaced, written in a no-nonsense style in plain Portuguese that even a raw beginner could make sense of. He wondered how he'd missed it before. 

The shallow bumps and flat paper between them felt almost sacred to Luis in a way he could never explain. "In the Name of Life and for Its sake," he read aloud, "I say that I will only use the Art that is Its gift in the service of that Life, and reject all other usages." 

With those first words, the universe seemed to lean in around him. 

"I will allow what grows, to grow; and I will ease the suffering of those that suffer." 

It was still early afternoon, but the room grew as still as twilight. 

"I will interfere with nothing unless it or its system are threatened, and I will not change anything against its will, unless it threatens itself, or its system, or another system." 

When silence fell, the cat, still in the kitchen, startled and hid under a chair. 

"For these purposes, as I practice my Art, I will leave fear for courage and death for Life, when it is right to do so. I will look always toward the heart of Time—" 

Not a sound could be heard in the apartment, save for Luis's voice; not even the neighbors' voices in the hallway darted through the silence of the listening world. 

"—until the end of the Universe." 

The world let out a sigh. Noise and light erupted back into his room. The cat had started to creep out of hiding, but yanked back from the sudden noise. 

Luis breathed out in relief; the pages in back, the directory, heated up under his bracing fingers. 

When he flipped to the source of the heat, the hottest page dragged his fingers to middle, where his name now sat right underneath his mother's. 

_CRESPO, Luis A. Santos_  
R. Barata Ribeiro, 674 #42, Copacabana  
Rio de Janeiro - RJ, 22051-002, Brazil  
21 5555-5555  
(novice, pre-rating) 

_Holy Mother of God._

Luis startled when the door to the apartment slammed open, announcing Ana's arrival. A few seconds later, heavier footsteps followed behind her: Mamãe must have been laden down with groceries. 

"Anjinho, if you're hiding in your bedroom, you'd better be packing!" Mamãe called. 

"Mamãe, the family reunion isn't for another two weeks!" 

"Well, if you're not packing, could you come help Ana and I put the groceries away?" 

Luis sighed and felt around for his cane, which had fallen to the floor. He made sure to shove the book under his pillow before he left the room. He didn't want Ana getting into it. 

_**New Delhi, Delhi, India • 23 Śrāvaṇa 1926 (14 August 2004)** _

Jem pounded down the street in pursuit of his little sister. “Get back here!” 

Purnima laughed and ran faster. She nearly knocked over a cart of apples, but barely took the time to apologize. 

Jem stopped and helped the cart owner right himself; by that time, his sister was lost in the crowd. Jem finally caught up to her at their stall, where Maan was haggling over the price of a quilt. Jem didn’t listen as he ducked into the booth. 

He found Purnima in their living areas in the back, curled up on a pile of blankets, examining her prize. Jem knelt down in front of her, fishing in his pocket. 

“Here,” he said. “I will give you… two hundred rupaya for the handbag.” 

Puri looked at him and clutched it more tightly. 

Jem held out the bills, smiling enticingly. “It’s enough for some candy,” he told her. 

She snatched the money away, shoved the purse at him, and scuttled out front. Jem took a second to listen to her speaking to their mother, tripping over her own tongue, before rising to follow the eleven-year-old.

After making sure that the woman selling sweets was watching Purnima, Jem made his way back the way they had come that morning. 

“Stop! Thief!” 

Jem froze at the shout. A second later he was pinned against a wall. “See?” A man held up the handbag. “This was stolen from Sri Kapadia not half an hour ago!” 

Jem's heart started racing; he took several deep breaths to calm it. “I’m not the one who stole it! My sister did, I swear! I was coming to return it!” 

“All right, what’s going on here?” an exasperated man said from Jem’s left. He wrenched his head around to get a good look. _Ow… I probably shouldn’t have done that._ The man’s face was rugged, with a long scar running down the left side. 

“We caught this boy stealing, Anand,” the man holding him said. 

“I’ll be the judge of that.” The man’s cane clicked closer. He peered at Jem’s face. “Aren’t you Ritsika’s boy? Chetan?” 

Jem nodded frantically. 

“Let him go,” Anand ordered. “This isn’t the first time he’s been caught returning something his sister stole.” Anand steadied him as he dropped to the ground. “I’ll escort you to Sri Kapadia. He and I have a history.” 

Anand led the way to Kapadia’s shop. Jem held in a gasp at the explosion of color around him. 

“You like my weaving?” 

Jem stared at the bald shopkeeper. “You did all this?” 

He smiled and nodded. “I did.” 

Jem ran his hand along the nearest quilt, careful of the blood drying on his palms. “I can never get my stitches this even.” He remembered Sri Kapadia had talked about giving him work. That had been two weeks ago, though. Nothing had come of it—yet. 

A hand landed on his shoulder. Jem looked up into Anand’s scarred face. "Show me your hands." 

After a moment, Jem swallowed and held them out, palms up. He flinched at the gouges where his nails— _claws_ —had dug in. Sri Anand seemed not to notice, instead yanking his sleeve up to the elbow, exposing where Jem's normally brown skin was tinged with a sallow mix of orange and brown, with black stripes. 

"Sit down; take a deep breath in, hold it, and let it out. Sahil, could you take the bag he was returning?" Sri Kapadia pulled the handbag off of Jem's shoulder. "Thank you. Now, how long have you been a weretiger?" 

"A couple—not quite a couple months. Sahib," he remembered belatedly. 

"Do you have anyone to teach you how to control it?" Sri Kapadia asked from behind him. 

"Just—just my sister. We've been figuring it out as we go along." 

"That's right—you're Ritsika's older one, the son. I'll tell you what. I have some last minute work that needs to be done so I'm ready for tomorrow. I could use a helper. Are you still interested in that job?"

He squeaked. “You'd hire me?” 

The old man bobbed his head. “I would. You got a good eye, kid. Can you start today?” 

Jem nearly nodded his head off. "Yes!" 

Sri Kapadia sent him off to the side to repair a pile of torn decorations while he spoke to Sri Anand. The two men spoke in low tones, counting on Jem being too engrossed to listen. 

He helped two tourists, started working through the pile of decorations, and let his thoughts wander. 

"Hey, kid." 

Jem looked up. 

Nandi stood in front of him, arms crossed and foot tapping. "I need to talk to you." 

He raised his eyebrows. "Can we talk while I work?" 

The Bengali woman shrugged. "Sure." She sat down cross-legged on the floor and picked up one of the decorations. "Nice. So, you know those idiotic kids in Chicago or wherever it is?" 

"Houston." 

"Doesn't matter. At least I got the country right. Anyway, that idiotic rescue mission of theirs?" 

"Yeah?" 

"It might actually work." 

Jem's needle paused. 

"I know, I was surprised too. And I know I'm not supposed to be telling you anything—you know how it is, the more people who know about it, the more chance there is of You-Know-Who finding out—" 

Jem shuddered. 

"—but I know you've got a grudge against them, and I don't want you to miss out."

"What do the clannies say?" 

"Well, I've only talked to that one Qin kid—ugh, I keep forgetting her actual name—and she told me that her grandfather is against it, but I heard that he's only slightly against it, and that's just because he's worried about everyone's safety, not about the status quo. Vasundhara-rao isn't saying anything, as per freaking usual—" 

"What about the Nehrus?" Jem interrupted, fidgeting. He nearly poked his thumb with the needle. 

"—And, I heard from Thiru Pilla—you know, Kavin Pilla, the guy who sells books two streets over? He told me that Amala Madiga Garu told him that Zyan Qassab told _her_ that Rahul Gandhi _himself_ is supporting the Houston kids." 

Jem coughed on a bit of dust. It was getting dark out. "Oh, goodie." 

"Hey." Nandi tapped his knee. "Don't be sarcastic." 

"I'm sorry. It's just that I've spent too much time waiting, hoping for a miracle, hoping that someday the clannies would get up the guts to face the Seekers. They've been keeping us terrified in our beds for five _hundred_ years, and no one's tried to fight them, no one's tried to stand up to them. Everyone who knows about the supernatural, knows about the Seekers, and every one of them thinks the Seekers are invincible. They took my father. I want revenge. I'll fight them alone if I have to." 

"Chetan." She had a hard look on her face. "This month may have been your first full moon, but you're no newbie. You've known about the world we live in for years now, and you know what the kids in Houston are up against. You know going up against them by yourself is basically suicide." 

"I. Don't. Care." 

Nandi's voice softened. "Hey. We'll get your father back. Believe me." 

The needle shook in his hand, but he bit back his tears at the reminder. 

"So? Are you in, or out?" 

Jem closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Nandi wasn't just asking him to help coordinate a rescue mission, working in the very back of the background. She wasn't just asking him for a hypothetical plan for the hypothetical takedown of one single base belonging to them. Nandi was asking for his help in taking down every single one of their bases, no matter how suicidal it was, no matter how many months or years it took. Starting with Houston, they would bring down the Seekers, and probably die trying. 

It barely required any thought. "I'm in."

* * *

Long after Nandi left, a hand on his shoulder startled Jem out of his thoughts. He looked up into Sri Anand's scarred face. “Let’s be getting you home, kid. Your sister won’t be safe at the candy stall by herself much longer.” He smiled at Jem’s surprise. “What can I say, I’m observant. Seeker-trained, in fact.” 

Jem instinctively flinched away. Anand tightened his grip. “I’m not one of them, Chetan. Sahil and I fought tooth-and-nail to escape. I’m glad you’re helping those kids in Houston take them down, kid. That girl’s important, and so are you. The sooner she’s free, the better.” 

_**Brasília, Distrito Federal, Brazil • 21 August 2004** _

Luis's entire extended family had descended on his great-grandparents' house in Brasília. Conspicuously absent was his Tio Piedro, which seemed to be a great topic of discussion—at least among the adults. 

"Thiago, we're not supposed to be eavesdropping," he hissed in his cousin's direction. 

Ana shrugged next to him. "You can go do something else. We're staying here." His little sister smelled like begonias; she had probably been playing in Bisavó Beatriz's garden with the younger cousins, something they'd been explicitly told not to do. 

"If we're not supposed to be eavesdropping, then why is your ear pressed to the door?" someone else whispered from further away. She sounded like one of the third cousins who had come down from Macapá. 

Ana Carolina shushed them. 

"—give him up as lost?" 

"Puta que _pariu!"_ Luis flinched; Rafael, behind him, nearly jumped to his feet. Things were _bad_ when Tia-avó Eduarda started swearing. "We will not give up!" 

"With that crowd he fell into?" One of his mother's cousins snorted. "If we ever get him back, we'll get him back in pieces!" 

"Avô, you look like you know something that we don't," one of the older cousins remarked. The younger cousins all glanced at each other and inched closer to the door, even Ana Carolina. 

Bisavô Juliano sighed. "I do indeed. But first, could we let those ruffians in so they don't have to listen at the door?" 

The six of them scrambled away in a panic; Luis collapsed his cane and let Rafael pull him behind a potted plant. 

The door to the library creaked open. "All right, where are you?" Primo Sávio called from the doorway. The kids cautiously emerged from their hiding spots. Luis snapped his cane to full length and stood up. Rafael grabbed his hand and guided him to the door; Luis rolled his eyes. 

"All right, children, gather round, gather round." Bisavô Juliano directed them to sit on the floor. Luis broke away from Rafael's hand and sat next to Ana. "Someone round up the rest of the adults and the older kids, will you? Ten or over, that'll do. Thank you. Let's move some chairs around and make room, shall we?" The noise level rose and then fell dramatically when Bisavô whistled for silence. When everyone had arrived and the shuffling was done, Luis found himself sitting next to Ana Carolina, one of the cousins his sister had been playing with, and a pair of someone or other's probably-drunk uncles on the couch behind him. 

"We're all here, now, aren't we?" Bisavô Juliano's voice was raspy with old age. "Good. Now, you know our family is _old,_ don't you? Goes back to the time of the conquistadors! Further, really, but that's when things started getting written down." 

His extended family muttered restlessly. 

"All right, all right, I'll get to the point. No point in telling you what you already know. Early fifteen-hundreds, wasn't it? I'm afraid I don't know the exact year. One of Cabral's men married a Tupiniquim woman, and their son went on to marry a Carijó woman, down where Rio de Janeiro is today. Gabriella and her children still live down there. That, there, is when our family's modern story started." 

"For those of you who don't know," Bisavó Beatriz said quietly, "most members of our family are wizards. Magic-users. We serve the Powers That Be. Our duty is to preserve life and ease pain. Throughout the wizarding world, the Santos name is recognized as that of one of the great clans." 

Luis reached into his back pocket, where his Manual had shrunk to the size of a small paperback. Now that he thought about, most of his family members frequently carried books with them. He hadn't thought anything of it before. 

"Wizards aren't alone among the supernatural, or even among magic-users. Every part of the world has its own magic, its own gods and monsters. And every sort of magic there is has a clan to represent it. We just so happen to be it, for the wizards of South America." 

Luis's worldview had shifted several times over the last two weeks. Now it shifted again. Ana Carolina, to his left, nodded along with Bisavô; his cousin to the right was as enraptured and confused as he was. 

Tia-avó Eduarda snorted. "Tell them about the Seekers, Pai," she invited. 

Half the air seemed to go out of the room at once when she said the name. Luis wondered why, but Bisavô took a deep breath. 

"The Seekers," he murmured. "That's right—you little ones probably haven't heard of them before. 

"The Seekers are the boogeyman. They're the monster under the bed. If you ask what nightmares are afraid of, they're the answer. They steal and murder and kidnap those like us in the dead of night. In the supernatural world, they're the sick union of the Mafia and Nazi Germany and the evil side of every rebellion, rolled into one. The clans do their best to oppose them, but the clans can only do so much—less, when some try to appease them and some don't even think they're a threat.

"Your cousin—or uncle, or whatever he was to you—fell in with them several years ago. A few months ago, he tried to leave. It seems the Seekers took exception to that." He took a drag of his cigar. "I've heard through the grapevine that the supernatural community in Houston—that's in America, somewhere in the south—have some sort of plan to get back one of their own, who the Seekers took early this month." 

The entire room seemed to gasp. "That's _suicide,"_ one aunt muttered. 

"It may well be," Bisavó Beatriz said. "But the Seeker threat has gone on long enough. It is high time that we make a stand. We are one of the great families of the hidden world, and from now on, we will bow to no one—least of all those who seek to destroy us." 

"Does anyone have any objections?" Bisavô Juliano bellowed. 

Hasty mutters and the sound of shaking heads showed that no one wanted to speak against him. 

"Bisavó Beatriz is right," Primo Sávio said. "We can't be afraid anymore." 

Mamãe spoke up quietly. "They killed my brother." Her voice was hard. "I would like to avenge him." 

Luis nodded. "I may not be able to fight," he said hoarsely, "but I'll help, any way I can." 

In his pocket, his Manual buzzed. He pulled it out and grinned when he read the change in his listing. 

_STATUS: ON ORDEAL_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4,600 words, at least one thousand in each scene. Mission accomplished. 
> 
> I meant to post this in July, then I decided to post it for Raksha Bandhan, then I decided to post it for India's Indepedence Day on the 15th, then I didn't get it done until now. So. Have a late chapter? (At least this time it didn't take me almost eight months.) 
> 
> August 1st, 2004, was a full moon, with [high temperatures and thunderstorms](https://www.wunderground.com/history/airport/VIDD/2004/8/1/DailyHistory.html?req_city=New%20Delhi&req_state=DL&req_statename=India&reqdb.zip=00000&reqdb.magic=60&reqdb.wmo=42182&MR=1) in New Delhi. 
> 
> The very beginning came from a two-sentence prompt.
> 
> Jem was originally a werewolf, but weretiger legends are much more prevalent in India. 
> 
> [Raksha Bandhan](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raksha_Bandhan) takes place on the day of the full moon in Sravana, so yes, that rakhi is brand-new. 
> 
> Tigers are typically nocturnal, solitary creatures. 
> 
> The stripes on a tiger's skin most closely match [chamoisee and bistre](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raksha_Bandhan). I don't know how to pronounce those words, either.
> 
> People in Brazil usually take both their parents' surnames (which can lead to some really long names; see the [Wikipedia entry](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Portuguese_name) on Portuguese naming for more), but go by the mother's name in casual conversation. (I think.)
> 
> Now you know where Luis lives! Quick breakdown:  
> The listing has his mother's final surname first, then the other names, as is typical of Brazilian phone books.  
> Street, building number (I don't think this building actually exists, but I might've screwed up), apartment number (not sure if this is right, but this neighborhood is almost all apartment buildings), neighborhood (yes, that Copacabana).  
> City, state code, postal code (yes, that's the correct code), country  
> Rio de Janeiro area code and generic phone number  
> This is a mix between the format in Google Maps, the format for "How to send a letter to Rio de Janeiro", and the format we've seen in the Manual. (Do I have an actual life? Probably not.) 
> 
> This version of the Wizard's Oath came from Google Translating it into Portuguese and back into English, writing it up from memory, and then ramming it with a torpedo. (Today's commentary is courtesy of twelve hours of sleep and too much candy on top of not enough food /or/ sleep for five days.) 
> 
> I'm... not sure how well I handled Luis's blindness. If I screwed up, please leave a (polite) review. 
> 
> Quick note I forgot in the last chapter—some of the slang that shows up is specific to this 'verse. 'Clannie' means anyone who's in one of the clans. 
> 
> The Qin dynasty was the first (and second-shortest) dynasty of Imperial China. I'm handwaving history here and saying that Qin Er Shi had a secret kid who went on to found one of the oldest clans. 
> 
> Vasundhara Raje is a member of the Scindia (or Shinde) family, which ruled the Maratha Empire until the British conquered India. In this 'verse, they're heavily tied into various Asian mythologies. In the modern day, the Scindias have been prominent in politics since 1962. 
> 
> The Nehru-Gandhi family has produced three prime ministers and innumerable activists and members of Parliament. Here, they're a clan of wizards and psychics; the clan is named after some distant ancestor of Jawaharlal Nehru, Indira Gandhi's father. Mehrnaz from Games Wizards Play is probably related to them, because that would be awesome. No relation to Mahatma Gandhi. 
> 
> I was going to have Nandi use the Bengali honorifics for various people, but because research sucks and I'm lazy, she's using the honorifics from their linguistic/ethnic group. (If anyone knows what the correct Bengali prefix or suffix honorific for a woman is, and how to use it, hit me up in the comments and I'll correct Nandi's speech patterns.) 
> 
> "Puta que pariu!" means "F*cking hell!"
> 
> More historical handwaving! While most Brazilians are mixed-race, I have no idea if the... er... liasions started as early as Cabral's visits. 
> 
> Happy (late) Independence Day, India!


	8. Author's note

First of all, I apologize for the lack of updates. 

Second, you have most likely noticed that I deleted all but the first eight chapters. I copied the posted versions to a document on my laptop, including notes and summaries, so I would be able to work from the final version while revising, rather than an earlier draft. 

The chapters were deleted because I've been changing character descriptions and story arcs as I revise, which was creating quite a few inconsistencies with later chapters. To avoid confusing new readers, I deleted every chapter save for the three completed chapters and the five I'm currently revising. 

By now, I know better than to give myself a deadline for the next update, so all I can say is that I'm almost done with Chapter Four and that there are several chapters that only need to be checked for spelling and grammar. 

Sorry for the inconvenience, my lovelies. 

-Beth

Update, May 5: 

Chapter Eight has been deleted due to inconsistencies created by Chapter Six, which will be posted as soon as I finish the coding and proofreading. 

On the Chapter Seven revisions, I've finished one scene out of four. Depending on school and how much I actually focus on writing, the new version could go up any time between next week and July. Chapter Eight will take quite a bit longer; I'm debating whether or not I should split it into two parts and shorten the fic's timeline. Please leave a comment on Chapter Seven with your opinion. 

-Beth

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, you. Yeah, you. If you've ever made it to the end of one of my loooong author's notes, you know just how much research I put into this thing. Do me a favor and make it all worthwhile. Leave a flippin' review, will you?


End file.
